Fire
by Blodeuedd
Summary: Jealousy. A dead mother. Grief. Rebellion against the gods. Impetuosity. A binding vow. Betrayal. And three jewels that will change the fate of a people. Here is the life of Fëanor, from start to finish. Enjoy if you can. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter One: The Slopes of Taniquetil

Fire

By Blodeuedd

Author's Note 

In _Fire_, I introduce all characters by the Quenya names with which they were addressed in Valinor. Only in later years did the Calaquendi (Eldar that had dwelt in Valinor) return to the Eastern lands of Beleriand and Middle-earth and adopt the Sindarin tongue of the Moriquendi (Eldar that had never gone to Valinor) that still dwelt there. As Quenya language faded to use only between Calaquendi in personal dialogues, so too faded the Quenya names of the Eldar who had once dwelt in Valinor. These names were replaced by their Sindarin translations, or in some cases, as in that of Maitimo/Maedhros, a suitable alternative.

While this may be confusing, it is historically accurate and, I believe, lends a sense of authenticity to the work overall. If you are not familiar with the obscure, albeit nobler, Quenya names used in this story, please refer whenever necessary to the list of Quenya names and Sindarin translations that I have included below for your perusal.

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Quenya-Sindarin Glossary of Names 

This glossary consists only of the primary characters that were conceived by J.R.R. Tolkien, and furthermore only the ones who are remembered by their Sindarin names. It is to be taken into account that many of the Elven individuals listed here are known mainly by the translation of their mother-names, so that is the name listed for each character below. Father names, if known, are also listed beside the mother-name, but are not translated. However, if an individual is better known by his or her father-name, or if the mother-name is unknown, the father-name will be the one translated and the Sindarin translation of the name will be marked with an asterisk () to note this variance.

_Aikanáro_ _Ambaráto _son of Arafinwë: Aegnor

_Ambarto Pityafinwë_ son of Fëanáro: Amrod _(Although Amrod and Amras shared the mother-name Ambarussa, Ambarto was also given to Amrod as an additional mother-name to help tell the twins apart.)_

_Ambarussa Telufinwë_ son of Fëanáro: Amras

_Angaráto_ son of Arafinwë: Angrod

_Arafinwë_ son of Finwë: Finarfin

_Arakáno_ son of Nolofinwë: Argon

_Artaresto _son of Arafinwë: Orodreth _(This name is the result of a large amount of guesswork, for during the time Orodreth was listed under this Quenya name he was also yet to be developed from _son_ of Angrod to brother of Angrod!)_

_Carnistir Morifinwë _son of Fëanáro: Caranthir

Curufinwë Atarinkë son of Fëanáro: Curufin 

_Fëanáro Curufinwë _son of Finwë: Fëanor

_Findaráto Ingoldo_ son of Arafinwë: Finrod (_It should be taken into account that while in Beleriand Finrod also received the name Felagund from the Dwarves. Felagund is derived from the Khazâd _felek-gundu_, or 'Hewer of Caves,' and was a title by which Finrod was often referred to in after days._)

_Findekáno_ son of Nolofinwë: Fingon

_Írissë _daughter of Nolofinwë: Aredhel

_Itaril _daughter of Turukáno: Idril _(Note that Itaril is a shortened form of the name Itarillë.)_

_Maitimo Nelyafinwë (Russandol)_ son of Fëanáro: Maedhros _(The name Maedhros is not an exact translation of either Maitimo or Russandol, but it can be assumed, by the translation of Maedhros as 'Well-formed Copper,' that it is a conjunction of the two, for Matimo translates as 'Well-formed One,' and Russandol is translated as 'Copper-top.')_

_Makalaurë Kanafinwë_ son of Fëanáro: Maglor

_Moringotto_: Morgoth _(Morgoth is, obviously, the exception to the rule. He has no mother- or father-name we know of, so the name given to him by Fëanor in Valinor is the one translated here.)_

_Nerwendë Artanis _daughter of Arafinwë: Galadriel _(It is to be noted that Galadriel is the Sindarin version of the name Artanis received from her lover Teleporno (Celeborn), and it is also to be noted that Galadriel also had yet another name, that was not listed above—the surname Alatáriel.)_

_Nolofinwë Ingoldo _son of Finwë: Fingolfin

_Turukáno _son of Nolofinwë: Turgon

_Tyelkormo Turkafinwë _son of Fëanáro: Celegorm

_Tyelpinquar_ son of Curufinwë: Celebrimbor

--

_Chapter One: The Slopes of Taniquetil_

My father and I rode for three days before we came to the snowy foot of Taniquetil, and it was in the chill silence of the Pelóri that we spent that time.

Finwë, my father, who spoke to me of all things, had not told me our journey's purpose; I had had to learn that myself, from the whispers of the servants and the hidden messages written in silence and the hearts of my father and his people. Ingwë, lord even over Finwë, who was held as King of the Noldor, had sent summons for my father to come to his house. My father had at first refused, then received this invitation, and returned from the gardens of Lórien only long enough to tell me that I was coming as well.

In those times, I was his only son, and dear to his heart.

I was content to ride beside my father in the utter quiet, my thoughts for once voiced only in the keeping of my mind. The light, radiant even this far from Valmar and the Trees that bore that light, danced upon the snows about us and bathed them in a brilliant, clear luster that enchanted my heart.

Unexpectedly, the ancient, immortal silence of the Pelóri was broken, by a voice upraised in elated, sweet song. Both my father and I brought our mounts to a halt, and looked about in wonder. I was caught by the beauty of the song that held no sadness, only joy. But slowly, as I looked to Finwë, my amazement turned to painful dread, which first woke in my heart, and then rose to my throat when I saw the entranced eyes of my father.

"Father," I urged, knowing how childish and afraid I sounded, but unable to stop myself for the painful unrest that had come to life within my being. "Please, come, let us go to the House of Ingwë. . ." But my father moved not, as if caught in the mesh of some spell. His eyes were raised skyward, seeking the music, and I could see that where in my heart there was dismay, his held only wonderment.

"It is the song of the lark," Finwë murmured, eyes unmoving, seeing nothing of my dismay at his fascination.

"Hasten, Father, please," I begged again, my heart agonizingly torn between staying where my father would remain, and the unreasoning, innate alarm that pressed at me, imploring me to escape the beauty I knew would ensnare my father.

From up the pass, the sound of the song neared, and from about the bend came a slight, fair figure, moving on unshod feet as white as the snow they walked upon. My eyes caught a shade of radiant gold, vibrant as the leaves of Laurelin that do not fall, before I wanted to see no more and turned away.  
As if from many leagues away, I heard the song fade, but no ease came. Then, a low, sweet voice made of laughter and gold light said, "I am Indis, sister-daughter of Ingwë, and I greet you in full good will, King Finwë."

I heard my father reply, but his words were quietly spoken and I cared not to hear them. The golden voice was pure and gentle, but I hated it fervently, hated it for the enchantment it had cast over my father, and I rebelled against its tenderness.

The last I heard before I closed my ears to everything was the pure, kind voice saying, "Ah, milord Finwë, forgive my insolence, but your son is weeping."

The remainder of the journey to Taniquetil was a blur of numb grief to me, a misty recollection of snow and cold and laughter that unwittingly mocked me in its tender frailty. Despite all his love for me, my father had eyes only in that hour for Indis, kinswoman of Ingwë.

I did not wake from my daze until we arrived at the gates of Ingwë's great citadel. My callousness faded to a white vision of rising towers and sinuous walls, exquisitely beautiful beyond words or song. I dismounted and gazed in wonder upon the mansion that was the flower that bloomed amidst the snows of Taniquetil, at the feet of the great houses of Manwë and Varda.

"I shall go now, my lords, and tell Ingwë of your coming," came Indis' voice, and I reeled about, but she seemed to speak only for my father to hear. Her shining eyes, blue as the sky before dawn, rested on naught but his face. Almost reluctantly, she turned and walked away, feet making no sound upon the stone floor of the colonnaded halls.

I looked at my father, only to find him looking after Indis as one in a dream, and my heart broke into shards of agony that pierced my soul and goaded me into blind, jealous anger.

"Have you no shame?" I spat furiously at Finwë, "My mother is not yet sixteen years in her grave, and already you look to another woman to forget your woe!"

Somewhere, my sickened fury and senseless hate struck him, but my father could only turn to me with hurt, unknowing eyes that roused guilt and confusion within me. Not knowing what to say or do, I turned on my heel and stormed away, leaving my father to stand alone with our horses in the pale courtyard.

In the house of Ingwë, few places was locked or barred, and one could wander as free and lonely as they would. So it was that I found myself in an empty garden. Even in the heart of the wintry snows, the flowers bloomed with a life so vivid it seemed they would burst from the sheer joy of being. Every soft petal was sweet with heady fragrance. But their superficially bright hues and cloying smells did nothing to console my aching wounds.

Chief among my passionate emotions then were my torn feelings. I loved my father dearly, even in the fires of anger, and I wished only for his happiness. But if his happiness meant love for Indis. . .that was where my pride interfered. It would be an insult to my mother's memory for him to love Indis so plainly and without restraint. If mother I ever had.

I had heard of her often, and how greatly my father had loved her. Her mother-name had been Serindë, the Broideress, for her weaving and needlework were famed far and near, but her chosen name was Míriel.

I did not remember anything of her, though at times, despairing, I would pretend I remembered her voice, or her laugh, or her face. I was raised thinking she had died at my birth, but I later learned more, by way of my gift of hearing whispers that were thought to go unheard.

It was said that, after my birth and naming, Míriel had grown weary of life and earthly cares, for in giving birth to me, she had given much of her essence away to the consuming fire of my spirit. So Míriel had told my father she was ready to die, for the very simplicity of life grew taxing on her weary heart. Despite his grief and pleas, she went to the gardens of Lórien, where she died a year later. My father still went there often, looking for the beloved spouse he had lost.

But the tales also said that ten years ago, overcome with emotion, Finwë had gone to Valinor, before the Valar themselves, to ask them for the return of his wife from the halls of Mandos. His speech was so eloquent, so fraught with pain and loss, that Manwë, Lord of the Valar, gathered all the counselors of the Eldar--Teleri, Noldor, and Vanyar alike--and called upon Ilúvatar himself for aid. Míriel's spirit was summoned up from Mandos, and she spoke as well.

But Míriel had no wish to be reborn.

In that hour, the law that my people still named the Statute of Finwë and Míriel came to be--the law that said that any husband or wife of the Eldar who lost their spouse to death would be able to wed again. In the eyes of that decree, my father was blameless, but I knew my own gaze was not so forgiving.

I was drawn from my thoughts and the silence of the garden by the sound of nearing footsteps. When I raised my eyes, I saw Ingwë standing before me, watching me silently. I straightened from my stooped posture of thought, dropping into a bow of sincere reverence, and averted my gaze.

"Rise, Finwion," Ingwë said in a resonant voice, wiser than the stars, clearer than the song of any harp beneath the sky. Trying not to tremble, I obeyed.

Ingwë was taller than any Elda I had yet seen, and was girt in robes of pure white. His face was handsome, yet pale and wise with many years, and his eyes were the somber gray of a quietly restless sea. Ingwë's hair was an even fairer and richer gold than that of his kinswoman Indis, and shone like the fields of Yavanna about his face. I felt afraid and awed to be in his presence, and it took much of my strong will to keep from bowing again.

"Something troubles you, wise son of Finwë; something you seek to keep from the perception of all," Ingwë said, his voice low and full as the sound of a pealing bell, "But it is said _wounds fester if left unheeded for too long_. So why will you not speak?"

"It is not a matter I would let all of Eldamar know," I muttered lamely, wanting to lie but unable to do so. Ingwë was the King of all Elves, and the Valar loved him greatly. Out of their love, they had bestowed much of their wisdom upon him, and he would have known if I were to lie.

Powerless, I blurted, "Why does he love Indis?"

Ingwë regarded me silently, his eyes betraying none of his emotions, and even if I had dared try to wring out his hidden thoughts, I think I would have learned little.

"Why do you hate her?" Ingwë asked in return, "Do you think Indis steals all love from your father's heart? She is of my blood and I know much of her plight.

"She has loved Finwë since she first saw him from afar, and she has harbored that love in secret, for the sake of Míriel. Indis has waited ten long years since Míriel's passing, but she has hidden her pain and lived in laughter. Do not fear anything from her; her spirit is at long last truly happy. I do not speak on behalf of Indis, or because she is my close kin, but from what I know to be true."

I wanted to protest, but Ingwë held my gaze, and the intensity of his gray eyes silenced me. At long last, I found my voice.

"What would you have me do then? Love her? She is not my mother, and she shall never be, either in words or in my heart."

"I ask not for you to love her presence, Finwion, but to abide it, for the sake of your father."

Now he truly had me torn. Without another word, Ingwë turned and strode away, and I did not stop him.

I did not go to dinner that night, but brooded in the empty hallways, still not wanting to see Indis with my father.

In that hour, I tried my hardest to remember Míriel, as though remembering would return her fabled dark beauty and skilled hands to my father's house upon the green summit of Túna. My struggles were in vain. There was an empty place in my body where memories of her face and voice should have been. Had she faded thus from my father's memory also? Had all shadowy recollection of my mother dwindled away to nothing in the insipid golden glow of Indis' deeds and voice?

And in his banishment of Míriel's memory, did Finwë also rue _my _presence? For I was the child of Míriel, something to be cast away like an empty vessel, an eyesore and nuisance no longer to Finwë and his newfound love.

I gazed out helplessly over the mountains, eyes barely seeing how their snowy mantles were faintly limned with the light of faraway Valinor. Above me, the countless stars in the sky glowed like embers in the palm of night. _They _had no cares or worries, and certainly were not to be troubled by my spirit-rending anguish. I looked up and down the long-shadowed colonnade I stood in, and realized that none upon Taniquetil's slopes most likely cared either.

Suddenly afraid and alone, I shuddered in the scathing cold of the mountains. Even my oft-kindled anger would not warm me here.

My gaze lifted to and lingered upon the light of Valmar, shining upon the citadel from among the peaks, its brilliance sweeter than a summer's day. I felt a faint, gentle warmth upon my face, as if to quiet my raucous emotions, and for a moment my worry and powerless rage were contained. But I disliked the sensation of being soothed beyond worry and into torpor, so I turned away, letting the cold again engulf me.

I would not be at all grieved to leave this place.

But it was not until many weeks later that my father saw fit to leave, and only then with the silver ring of a wedding betrothal upon his hand. The sight of the glossy-white thing about his finger tormented me like a malicious ghost, and I was perversely glad that the betrothal would last for a year or more before Indis and Finwë could wed.

We left Taniquetil on a bright and clear morning. Indis came forth from the door of the citadel, and I turned away in rising bitterness, not wanting to see my father bidding her farewell, leaving me to brood and hold the bridles of our horses. Out of the corner of my downcast eye, I could see Ingwë standing upon the polished steps leading to the wide door of his house, watching the scene laid out before him with a dispassionate yet perceptive gaze. Finwë left Indis' side to climb the stairway to where Ingwë stood, then knelt at his superior's feet. As he rose, they exchanged some quiet, brief words, Finwë nodding and inclining his head once more in deep reverence. They were a strange sight, bathed in the lovely dawnlight of Laurelin--my quietly imposing, pensive father standing by the glorious, regal Ingwë.

I mounted my horse patiently, focusing solely on my father as he descended the stairs. As I did so, I willfully ignored Indis' gaze. She was looking upon me with sudden pity, as if I were some crippled, miserable thing that she felt for only out of necessity and decorum.

After what felt like fumbling, sluggish hours, my father mounted up on the horse beside my own, taking the reins I offered. Indis stepped away as our horses' hooves danced impatiently, but her eyes were fastened upon my father even as she kept her distance from the fire-hearted steeds. I turned my horse about and spurred him to a brisk canter, wanting to be gone from this too-tranquil, idyllic place. As Ingwë's house faded, white upon white, into the mountains laden with snow, I changed my horse's frenzied gait to a more sedate walk.

As the animal's pace slowed, Finwë drew his horse even with mine, but said nothing. I dared not to steal so much as an instant's glance at where he sat, fearing to find some rebuke or anger in his face. The only sound for many dragging, weary minutes was the slushing whisper of our horses' hooves in the light blanket of snow that covered the earth.

"What was my mother like?" I asked him abruptly, both out of sheer curiosity and an obstinate desire to inflict remorse. Finwë took the cutting question in placid silence, then met my accusing gaze with only soft heartache in his eyes. His poise cooled the hot wrath in my heart with all the subliminal force of a quiet, healing rain.

"More beautiful than any woman of the Eldar, she was," he murmured, eyes sliding through me as he returned to a time that lingered only in memory, "With eyes wise and gray, like yours. Dark as bright, docile twin stars. Her hair was long and silver, glossy and fine as the best thread that ever left her hands. . ."

I felt my throat close as my fury at my father faded, and I bent my head to hide the inevitable tears. My father halted his horse, his voice fading to a ragged sigh of longing and rising melancholy. I was faintly, faintly aware he was clasping my hand tightly within his own, but whether for my comfort or his own, I could not tell. All I could see through the blurring veil of my open weeping was the indistinct gleam of his silver ring of betrothal, but I was helpless in the grasp of my misery, unable to anything but let my tears fall. And so it was in the utter silence of the foothills encircling Taniquetil that, for a time, I made my peace with my father.


	2. Chapter Two: The Bay of Eldamar

_Chapter Two: The Bay of Eldamar_

The year went by all too fast, and come winter I was filled with dread of Indis' arrival in the spring. So I made ready to go alone upon a long, spontaneous journey, preferring to evade being present at the wedding and to spend that time in happiness rather than to suffer and fret within the walls of Tirion. I did not know where I would go, except that it would be far away, to a place I had never seen before.

On the morning that I left, only my father was there to see me off. I had never had many friends. None of them had ever lasted long by my side, and none that I had had ever been truly dear to my heart. Eventually, they tired of my mercurial moods and selfish impatience, leaving me in a lonesome condition that I knew I deserved, yet hated with all my heart. Then I would be left to rail powerlessly against the cage of my solitude, unable to do anything but build up a mounting wave of rage that would crash upon my former friend the next time I saw them. Perhaps it was that I was too strange, too sullen, too rash a child to have true companions. Perhaps I was a puzzlement to all in those days, save maybe in the eyes of Finwë.

When my father asked me where I went, and what I hoped to find, I could not answer.

"Do not expect me to return before long, and do not bother to look for my coming," was all I was capable of saying, unable to take my eyes from the hated ring on my father's finger.

"Very well, my son, if you wish it to be so."

My hardened, vulnerable heart was almost rent by the hurt love in his voice, and I quickly turned away to adjust my horse's girth, though it needed no such alteration. My mount tossed his proud head and pawed at the earth, scenting the nearness of a ride, and my spirit reluctantly mirrored his eager impatience.

"Find peace, Finwion," my father called after me as I rode from the dooryard. The sky above was scattered with eggshell-white clouds, and my grief and shame spurred me onward.

I headed eastward, beneath the shadow of Tirion's towers, where the stars shine almost to their full, searching with barely controlled desperation for a place that existed only in my mind. Backed by the light of the Trees, I made my way through the Calarcirya, refusing to slow or halt.

I was sure to always keep my horse at a brisk pace, as if I were being pursued, but I was also sure to draw in what little peace I could from the beautiful lands of Eldamar, with her endless green plains and proud, jutting mountains. Ever since I was very young, I had always better loved the untrammeled solitude beyond Tirion's tame, meek beauty.

At the end of each day, I took a brief rest, ate a small meal from the food I had packed, fed and watered my horse, then mounted and rode again. I did not like remaining dormant for too long, for soon my fast-crawling thoughts would catch up with me, and entangle me again in their black snares. So I sought solace in the winds and the light and the boundless heaven above, staying still for no longer than I had to. It became almost a fearsome game: remain in motion, and I lived as free of pain as I ever would. Linger, and the bleak gloom behind me would eat my heart.

I went many places in those days, to lands strange and alien and beautiful, yet none gave me the contentment I wished for. Until I came to the Sea.

On the eighth morning of my journey, I found the Bay of Eldamar. Rather, I nearly stumbled clear into it. I had been riding rashly, heedless of the nearby cliffs, until my horse shied and came to an unexpected halt, nearly throwing me from the saddle.

Stretching on forever beneath the stars, faintly riddled with silver and gold Treelight, was the Great Sea. Its waters were still and dark, a shade of blue not far above black. The waves, white with tossing manes of foam, beat eternally upon the adamant shores. They would advance forward, then retreat back, as if in mimicry of some irresolute battalion.

The shore was covered with rounded, shining-wet stones, set in careful, meaningless powers by the untold years of waves. Before the smooth pebbles was a stretch of languid white dunes, foothills to the coarse, rocky cliffs on which I stood, tempered to jagged harshness by the blood of tempests. Above my head in the profound, star-filled darkness that was only weakly pierced by the light of the Trees, gulls as white as the foam dipped and wheeled over the Sea. Their keening, resonant cries echoed over shore and water, running a shiver of unknown longing down my spine. The wild scent of the waters rose to meet me, and my nose was filled with its sharp, bitter smell.

For a moment, it was all I could do to simply stare at the overwhelming sight before my eyes. But then my reasoning returned, and with it came a jab of yearning to go down to the shore and stand in its immortal sands. I dismounted and led my reluctant horse down the rocky slopes of the cliffs, finding a makeshift path upon the steep, ironbound incline. At last, I stood at the foot of the precipice. Whispering a command to my horse to stay upon the gravelly rise, I walked slowly and deliberately to the water's edge, marveling in the scraping murmur of the sands beneath my feet. The foam ran desperately up the shore, nearly to the place where I stood. It lingered, pure-white, for an instant at my feet, and then dissolved with a hiss into the wet sand.

I lost all track of time then. All that mattered was the soft sighing of the waves and the steady, infinitesimal beat of my heart. Seconds slipped by, then minutes, dancing and disappearing in the furrowed, undulating waves. But all things come to an end, and abruptly, I looked up from the waves, body tingling as though I was being watched.

A slender Elf-maid, perhaps a year or so younger than I, stood unshod in the sand beside me. Unbound hair, a fierce coppery color and lawlessly curly, fell to her waist, its ringlets tugged by the sour wind. The strands twisted and writhed like fire over the soft simplicity of her drab woolen cloak and frock. Her face was pale and she had high, elegant cheekbones that seemed out of place on a child.

She was not as fair as some of the women of the Eldar. In fact, she was almost plain in our reckoning. But something in the way she bore herself gave her an intense, passionate beauty that no person in Valinor I had met before possessed, man or woman.

Startled, I could not move my eyes from her face. Eyes the color of the gray-mottled twilight sky watched me, highly observant yet polite beneath dark brows unfurrowed by contempt or intrusive curiosity.

It was not until many years later that I would realize that, in that one moment, I had fallen irrevocably in love.

"Why are you sad?" The girl asked suddenly, voice kind. Her words did not rend the tranquility of that strangely holy moment; rather, they heightened the sanctity, like the ringing of a slight silver chime in the silence of midnight.

I was taken aback; I did not myself know the answer to her question. Had I not left the thoughts of Indis behind? Or was I still troubled by the memories I already had? I had thought myself freed from such troubles.

"Why do you ask that?" I replied, keeping my voice as wary as I could.

"You seem so unhappy," she murmured somberly, looking out upon the Sea, "And that is strange to behold in the Undying Lands. I thought all who dwelt here lived in complete content."

Deliberately or not, the starlight gave her pale face and wise gray eyes a fragile, unearthly look.

"Who are you?"

She turned her face from the Sea and met my gaze with her nonchalant, level eyes.

"Nerdanel, daughter of Mahtan." A sigh left her lips, as if something grieved her.

Unconsciously, I took a step back. "What is it?"

"I wish you were happier. It would favor you better. One cannot dwell forever in a dark mood. Not here." Nerdanel's plaintive hopefulness cut to my raw heart, and I managed a quick, indulgent smile for her sake. She returned the smile in earnest, her worried face easing swiftly into the expression, as if she was used to smiling often. My heart quickened to an almost painful pace to see it.

"Who are you, then?" Nerdanel asked, smile dimming but not fading, stepping closer to the Sea. Her eyes shone with quiet delight as the waves washed over her bare white feet.

"Finwion, son of Finwë."

Nerdanel swept into a deep, graceful curtsy at the mention of my father's name, then rose, her dress dark where the hem had dipped into the water as she did so.

"Son of the King," she murmured, watching me with new curiosity. Then sadness filled her dark eyes again in new understanding. "But then your mother must be--"

"Míriel," I finished for her. "Yes, my mother was Míriel."

I knew she would now act like all the others did at the mention of my mother's name. Nerdanel would pity me and treat me as a crippled boy unable to stand on his own. All my hopes of friendship would be dashed to fragments on the jagged rocks of formality and condolence. I turned away to hide the grimace that was slowly spreading on my face.

"No wonder you are so troubled," I heard her say from behind me, "I cannot guess at a sorrow that has the power to linger for almost seventeen years."

"I would forget had it not been for the kinswoman of Ingwë." My voice was numb. I was too resigned to my fate to even let anger enter my tones.

There was only silence for a time, and the waves crashed fruitlessly on the beach. I could almost hear the feathery workings of Nerdanel's mind as she perceived and grasped this fresh knowledge.

"You have come here to avoid their wedding," she said softly, without having to ask. I slowly turned back to her in surprise. Her eyes stabbed deep into my soul, so I had no hope of disguise or respite, but I felt no pain.

I had, in pride, thought myself a skilled reader of hearts, a deft interpreter of the thoughts and emotions hidden in a glance, a motion, a single breath. But I had met my equal in Nerdanel.

"Tell me then, prince," Nerdanel said, "Who is this kinswoman of Ingwë, and why does she trouble your heart so?"

"She is the Lady Indis of the Vanyar," I replied, the innocent-seeming words burning bitter in my mouth. "She is everything my mother was not. Everything I am not. Where Míriel was dark, Indis is bright. Míriel found solitude and contentment in needlework and the arts of the hands. Indis finds her love instead for song, both of voice and instrument."

"Is that why you hate her so? Because of her differences? Finwion," Nerdanel boldly used my name, but I barely noticed, "If Indis were the same as your mother in every way, would you not still hate her for the place she has taken in your father's heart?"

Reluctantly, I nodded, realizing the truth. "But--she--" I protested feebly.

"I understand," Nerdanel said gently, voice soothing as the whisper of a river yet strong enough to quiet my doubt, "In your mind, Indis still is nothing in compare to Míriel."

"Yes. But. . .I love my father. I would give anything for his happiness. And that is where I despair of my own duplicity."

"Then you must endure, for his sake. Find strength in the conviction that your father is pleased. Do not love Indis dearly, if that is your wish, but for your father, remain staunch." Her words hauntingly echoed Ingwë's, and they had the same strange sound, made stranger by coming from the mouth of a mere child.

"But now I must go," Nerdanel said, glancing over her shoulder to the shore behind and interrupting my disquiet. "Will you be here on the morrow?" Her voice was quieter, friendly and intimate.

"Without fail. I have no longing to be elsewhere."

"Farewell then." The single hand she raised in parting was pale in the starlight. Then she turned and walked away up the shoreline, until she faded, like a wan shade of my own imagining, into the darkness of the cliffs.


	3. Chapter Three: Findis

_Chapter Three: Findis_

The months passed swiftly, but in that fleeting time I felt peaceful and untroubled, spending my days with easy leisure at the edge of the Belegaer. I refused to allow myself to dwell long on the thought of my father, or Indis, or Tirion with its many towers. Now that my thoughts return to that time, I see that, in those indolent days upon the shore, I laid open my heart for the deep-running wound that awaited me upon my return to the mansion of Finwë. But I gave no thought to it then.

In all honesty, my mind dwelt most upon Nerdanel during those days and nights. From the fair season of summer to the tempestuous time of winter, she came almost every day, constant as a guiding star. We would speak for hours at a time, walking along the lonely shores, and during that time I would forget my grief in the sweet constancy of her company.

My favorite times with her were when we would both clamber upon my horse and ride over the dunes. We never talked as we rode; neither of us felt it necessary. In the quiet, I furtively delighted in her nearness, in her pure, loyal friendship. It was on one of those oddly beautiful days that I realized that Nerdanel was my first true friend.

Over the course of the year I told her everything, words falling easily from my lips like rain from the skies. My hopes, people I had known, my fears, tales of my father and mother, my sorrows, my sweetest memories--nothing was too trivial or tedious for her ears.

She would listen intently as I spoke, rarely answering or interrupting my soliloquy. Rather, she seemed content to be silent and merely hear all I had to say. Even my father had never listened to me so faithfully, and in any case I was oft mindful of my words with Finwë out of my respect for him. Every time I spoke to my father of anything as a young boy, I had feared to annoy him or have my talk dismissed as nothing but a child's prattle. He had never expressed such irritation, but I had been afraid of it nevertheless, warily ensuring that my words were few and neutral.

Not so with Nerdanel. She accepted every word I uttered with the endless appetite of one gaunt with hunger for words, and I filled the empty, mute vessel of her unbroken attention with all the talk I could muster.

One night, as I was telling her of my father's memories of Cuiviénen and the Awakening, she abruptly ruptured that silence with a single question.

"What do you think it must have been like to see the stars without the light of the Trees, Finwion?" Nerdanel asked as I paused for breath in my narrative.

I blinked, as taken aback by the words as I would have been had she asked in another tongue. Finally, I recovered myself and replied impulsively, "I have no way of knowing. This was long before my time."

"They must have been bright, though." She turned her eyes to the sky in quiet reverence, then turned to look in the direction of Telperion with the quiet displeasure of one suddenly wakened from a deep sleep.

"My father likes to speak of them as they were then," I offered awkwardly, belatedly finding an adequate answer. Even then it felt as if I were some immature youngling, knowing nothing of what I spoke. "He says they were like hot coals, seen from afar. Or a scattering of bright, milky dew."

Nerdanel sighed at my words and closed her eyes, smiling in soft bliss at the thought. "Can you not see them, in your head, Fëanáro? Clear and magnificent, as they were in Cuiviénen?"

I glanced only briefly at the stars, but then turned my gaze down to her. Her head was still lifted to the sky, and all I could see of her was the fine white line of her slender neck, the dark shadow of her lashes tilted downward across the planes of her face, her body poised as though ready to take wing and lift into the heavens. She was one with the night, yet something apart, something greater and lovelier than anything I had beheld before.

"Yes," I answered in a soft, awed voice, fearful to startle away the timid emotion that crawled to my heart like a wild creature to flame, "I can see them."

It was during one cold, distant twilight in spring that I first thought of my home in Tirion. After a quick calculation, I realized that I had been over a year from Finwë's side. With the thoughts of Tirion and my father came a quick, knifing desire to return, and my contented, fleeting time of rest came to an abrupt end. My serene spirit became like the sea in a tempest, unable to decide what to do or what impulse to follow.

When Nerdanel came to visit me that night, with a little meal brought from home for the both of us, she recognized the change at once.

"What troubles you, Finwion?" Her eyes shone in perfect replication of the stars above as she laid out the bread and fruit upon her spread cloak. Both stars and eyes even held the same fierce, inclement sorrow.

"I must go home," I murmured, ashamed of my own melancholy. Nerdanel's entire body seemed to go slack with a gray despair that was poorly hidden. As she smiled sadly and stared at the forlorn dinner laid between us, the force of her quietly suppressed heartache hit me, and I felt ill with guilt at once. The waves tossed their white plumes into the air, churning and frothing upon the starlit beach. The song of the Sea was suddenly vague and distant, its beauty dimmed by the sad song emanating from my own heart.

"Will you return?" She asked at last.

"Yes. The Sea is not last in the thoughts of my heart." _Nor are you, _I mused silently, but kept those words within my mouth. It felt strange even to think them. Nerdanel's smile brightened slightly, and I knew that not even the stifled silence that ran fraught with unspoken words was enough to keep her from hearing that mere whisper of a thought.

"You may leave, then. I will not urge you to stay. But, Finwion," her voice grew softer, as if in the urgency of prayer, "Return here when you can find rest enough, and remember also that you shall ever be welcome in the house of Mahtan. I will visit you in Tirion, when I can."

"I shall miss you," I stammered out. For, despite my uncanny wisdom, I was still scarcely eighteen years old, and yet young and unwieldy. But be that as it was, I was not so callow as not to see that Nerdanel's eyes were over-bright with restrained tears.

We ate the meal in pensive silence, preferring the sea's mutterings to our own feeble attempts for conversation. Every mouthful of berries, every swallow of bread became as the tasteless sand of the dunes when it touched our lips, but we ate it unthinkingly, as though we would never stop. When we were left to ponder the last piteous heel of bread, wondering who would reach for it first, I turned my head and clicked my tongue. My horse trotted obediently to me from across the beach, its hooves tossing up the fine white sand. He bent his head and whickered in docile affection, and I stroked his velvety nose for a brief, vacillating moment before rising to my feet.

As I mounted my horse, Nerdanel walked to the animal's side and looked up at me, wiping absently at her eyes in an ashamed unhappiness that echoed my own.

"Farewell," she whispered, almost laughing through her tight-pursed lips but stopping herself, then gently took my loose-fingered hand in hers. I almost forgot to breathe, watching her in spellbound wonder as she pressed her lips fleetingly to my trembling knuckles. Her eyes watched me as she did so, dark irises lit bright with fascination and longing.

But before I could speak or move to touch her in return, she straightened and stepped back, a shuddering sigh leaving her body from the depths of her soul. My breathing ragged with astonishment, I watched her silently for an instant, trying to sketch the memory of her into the pages of my mind. But before I could consider her essence utterly etched into my core, I spurred my horse to a brisk canter, turning and heading for the jagged cliffs that loomed over the beach.

My journey homeward was swift and harsh, for once out of the sight of the Bay of Eldamar, my black dread rose again. Though I bit it back angrily as best I could, it persisted and harried at what remained of my bright humor in lonely moments. But something drove me fiercely onward, fiercer even than before, and I reached sight of the bright towers of Tirion on only the fifth day of my journey.

As I crested the ridge, I looked up upon the fair white city with a mixture of aching desire and dislike. Not for the last time, I wished that the Valar had not cursed me to be so torn betwixt love and hate for my home. Deep within myself then I felt a surge of bravery, and it drove me onward, beyond the grasp of my misgivings, into the gates of the city.

The city had not changed much since the day of my departure. Tirion, like her inhabitants, was immortal, deathless, without need for change or heartache. I had almost forgotten the sweet, radiantly beautiful songs that echoed among the many towers. The trilling birdsong that rang from every slender tree along the white-stoned avenues and alleyways was a sharp contrast to the mewing of gulls that I was so used to hearing. The city, bathed in the light of Valinor's Trees, was familiar, yet unknown to me at the same time. I wove my way through the curving streets, feeling bereft of all emotion. At last I reached the dooryard of my father's lavish house. Even this, the place where I had lived since my birth, seemed alien to me.

I dismounted slowly, and asked a passing steward to stable and water my horse, then walked to the stairway that led to the house. For a moment, I stood at the foot of the sprawling white stairway, almost helpless. Strangely enough, I felt like I wanted to hide, to flee, from the tangled hypocrisy of joy and hate that awaited me in that house, though I determinedly resisted those childish thoughts.

"Finwion!"

I raised my eyes to the top of the stairs, and there stood my father, standing as if frozen with surprise and happiness. He soon recovered himself and hurried down the stairs, taking them three at a time, and embraced me tightly. At first I was surprised, as if an utter stranger was welcoming me home.

It was like seeing him after many ages, not a year--I had forgotten almost everything about him that made him my father: his long, dark hair; his smiling, intensely deep eyes; his bearing of happiness and wisdom all in one. I found myself smiling unseen into his shoulder, wondering why I had ever had the callousness to leave my beloved father for so long. But the answer was not long in coming, and my happiness to return home was not to last.

"Finwë, who is it that comes?"

I stepped away from my father's embrace as a coppery taste, not unlike that of blood, rose in my mouth.

Indis stood on the stairs, resplendent as ever, her hair shining and stirred by a fair breeze, looking as if it were wrought from the purest gold. Her face shone too, seemingly sculpted from some pale, fair marble. Everything about her glowed with a marital-derived bliss that I hated and did not understand. Her arms were folded, and she carried something close in them, but my gaze only dwelt upon her merry blue eyes, so like those of her brother, Ingwë.

She recognized me at once, and said with a summery smile, "Welcome, Finwion."

I nodded my head curtly in response. I had not neglected to notice that she had not said _welcome home_. But I refused to say anything in reply, feeling my eyes brim over with hatred. Did she really think she could replace my mother so easily, standing on the stairs as if she really belonged here, as Míriel might once have? Did she believe she could exchange the memory of Míriel's silent weaving arts with her bright songs and fair laughter?

There suddenly came a soft coo from the shapeless bundle she held, and, with a horrid wave of revulsion, I knew what it was.

A baby. Finwë's child. I felt light-headed and suddenly unloved, and stepped coldly away from my father, my hands clenching into taut fists. Finwë turned to me and must have read the emotions running hot across my face, for he said softly, "Finwion, this is your half-sister, Findis."

His eyes seemed almost to beg for my forgiveness, but for all my love for my father, I found no pity, only rising sickness and anguish. Had he cast me away, as I had feared?

Half-_sister_?

The title cut me like a knife. I still refused to believe. I wanted to rail out in anger, to shout, to weep, but I checked those emotions, letting them go unreleased, only heightening my distaste. Indis glided down the stairs to stand beside my father, and held out the snuffling, swaddled babe to me.

"You may hold her, if you like," she offered quietly, face calm, though her eyes were troubled. I still marvel now at her trust.

More than anything not wanting to offend my father, I took Findis in my arms and glowered down at her, wanting to hate this accursed, wrongful embodiment of my father's love for a woman who was not my mother.

But I could not hate her.

Confused, I tried and tried my hardest to loathe the tiny child, brow furrowing in thwarted rage as I gazed down upon her. But all I could do was think of her with an almost protective affection. Findis was innocent of any crime, I realized. At that moment I could only think of Finwë's blood, the blood that bound us together as kin. Findis. So small, so frail, so weak.

In vain, I struggled still to scorn the infant. But my glare and resolve wavered after a brief time, and Findis laughed sweetly, raising a tiny, pale hand toward my nose, fingers straining as her smile widened.

Though her eyes were bluer than the summer sky, I noted with more than a little satisfaction that her hair was as dark as a still lake at midnight, like that of my father. That infinitesimal, superficial similarity softened my heart for a while. Later, yes, I would hate Findis, as I would all of Indis' brood.

But on that day, standing outside my father's house and holding his secondborn, I was incapable of any emotion toward the dainty, mewling babe but the tenderness that wrung so insistently at my heart.

After a minute or so, I returned my half-sister to Indis' waiting arms. My father's wife smiled gaily, thinking perhaps I was now won to her cause, but I only gave her a bitter scowl that clearly stated otherwise. She faltered at my mute rebuff, then went back into my father's house without another word, her pace quicker and brisker than before. Findis was clutched close in her arms, as if Indis sought to make the child's again one with her own.

Finwë turned to me. "You still dislike Indis." It was a flat, colorless statement, without anger or disappointment.

I glanced at where Indis had stood, then nodded sullenly. Finwë sighed and shook his head, almost smiling, though his eyes were dark. "You honor your mother well, Finwion, but let Indis have her peace."

I remained silent, not wanting to oppose my father, but neither wanting to obey.

"So, my son," he said at last, "Where did you go on this journey of yours? You were gone a full year."

I recovered my tongue at last and said, "To the Bay of Eldamar."

"Does your heart then dwell with the Sea now?" Bright laughter was wound through his usually dusky tones, and he watched me with innocent amusement.

I thought of Nerdanel and nodded.

Finwë must have seen something in me I had thought unseen, for he smiled, then turned and walked away up the stairs of the house. I was left to think alone and confused, gazing out over the clarion beauty of Tirion.

Nerdanel and her father, Mahtan the smith, would come to Tirion three years later, bringing with them the characteristically fair, amiable winter of Eldamar.


	4. Chapter Four: The Smith and His Daughter

_Chapter Four: The Smith and His Daughter_

In the time between Nerdanel's arrival and my return from the Sea, I had to accustom myself to the constant presence of Indis in my father's house. Míriel's old loom and her baskets of colorful fabrics and yarns were pushed even further into the shadows to make way for Indis' finely-carved instruments and tapestries, recently brought from Taniquetil. The untended garden that my mother had once worked in, coaxing hardy blossoms from the earth with her skilled hands, was cleared of the fallow herbs and unruly flowers. The naked, bare earth was then sown anew with the seeds of strange, alien flora that Indis had deemed pleasing.

But Finwë seemed to notice little of how his house was changing about him. Even after Indis had established her serene, golden presence in the house, my father had still lavished much of his attention upon me in the years since my return. However, this year Indis was again with child, and surely as the tides rise and recede upon the shores of the Bay of Eldamar, Finwë's concentration slowly turned to caring for his pregnant wife. I had no desire to tarry idly about the house only to be pricked by spite and resentfulness, so I left the house often to wander about the city. Even Findis faithlessly ignored me and followed her mother everywhere, prattling on about what her new brother or sister would be named and how she would be sure to be a good elder sister.

Unlike my half-sister, I felt a deep sense of foreboding every time I laid eyes on Indis. It was a steely feeling of dread that seemed to not come from her, but within her, and I was constantly wary of this growing, faceless threat. Where once I spoke little to her, I spoke even less, and drew further within myself to escape the turbulent currents of actuality.

I had no time to plan a return to the Belegaer or elsewhere beyond Tirion, so instead I would aimlessly travel through the city. Sometimes I would walk along its white walls, or climb its winding stairs up to the highest towers, to have the wind tug at my hair and the bright luster of the Trees upon my face.

On the rare times I would actually walk in the white-stoned streets and avenues of the city itself, I would listen carefully to the talk of the inhabitants, gleaning what tidings I could from their conversation. So it was that I heard about Mahtan, the smith who had come to Tirion only a few weeks before, coming to Tirion from the eastern reaches of Eldamar. I also heard of his strange, delicate daughter who made statues and carvings of the Valar and the likeness of the Eldar as well, sculptures so lifelike that other Eldar would attempt to speak to them, and not know their mistake until told.

I recognized the name of Mahtan at once. And from what I was able to overhear of the daughter, I knew at once that she was Nerdanel whose talent was spoken of with such wonder and almost-fear. When I asked after their whereabouts, I was told that the two had set up camp just beyond the city walls, selling their wares to any who passed. I set off at once, eager to see Nerdanel again and meet her father.

Long before I saw the encampment, I heard the hammering. Though the ringing strokes of a hammer were the most common sound of a smith's forge, it became something lovelier than any song or tune in my imagination. The resonant strokes throbbed through my head and heart like the very heartbeat of the immortal earth, awakening some insatiable, hungry fire within me.

All thought of Nerdanel and Mahtan vanished, lost in the silence between each vigorous blow and the answering chime of hot metal. I knew I had to find the source of this hallowed sound. I followed the beautiful clangor like one in a dream, blindly fumbling as all senses beyond my hearing faded, all of me straining to hear the next stroke. Like the wingbeats of a frightened bird in the night, the timbre of hammer upon steel fanned the flame that had lit in my heart. My feet carried me nearer and nearer.

Suddenly, I broke free of the rapturous spell and looked around me. I was in a campsite, where three simple tents were raised. Two horses grazed calmly nearby, looking up to see my arrival with unblinking, liquid dark eyes. In the center of the encampment was a traveler's forge, and the heat that emanated from it hit me like a blow. But almost at once, I grew accustomed to it, as if I had lived in such overpowering warmth all my life. Hunched over the forge was a man, his back to me. I could not see his face.

Unable to stop myself, I took a trembling step forward and abruptly asked, "What is it, that music?"

The instant the words left me I felt a fool, but the man turned and looked at me, his face shining from the heat. He was dusky and dark-haired, well-muscled and rough-skinned from many years over a forge, but his eyes reminded me of Nerdanel's--dark, wise, and inescapably perceptive.

"Music?"

The man barked a laugh, hefting the worn hammer he held in one large, callused hand. "You hear naught but the hammering of a man at work upon an anvil, child. Who are you? And what one sent you here to see me?"

"I am Finwion son of Finwë," I muttered, still embarrassed by my brusque question.

"The son of the King," the man exclaimed in sudden awe, and bowed. The reverence was awkward, as if he was unaccustomed to such things, but it was nonetheless sincere. As he rose, he nodded. "Yes. Istarnië has spoken of you. I am Mahtan, her father." He paused, seeing the confusion upon my face. "Nerdanel is my daughter. Istarnië is her mother-name."

I nodded, feeling at ease around Mahtan. It was a rare thing for me to feel comfortable speaking to strangers. "Master Mahtan, what is it that you are doing?"

"Me? I am metalworking. Blacksmithing. Call it what you will." I was struck by curiosity, but before I could realize it, Nerdanel emerged from one of the tents and saw me.

"Finwion?"

I turned to her, and recognized her at once. Over only three years, Nerdanel had grown dramatically. She was taller, almost my height, and had grown into the oddly exquisite face that been so mature and strange for a young girl. For a moment, I was speechless. She smiled to see me, and I almost forgot to smile back.

Mahtan watched us with wise eyes that were seasoned with a knowledge yet unknown to Nerdanel or me, and turned back to his forge without a word as Nerdanel and I walked together out of the encampment and out onto the vast, grassy plains.

For hours, perhaps, we walked, blindly following the direction of our feet, and Nerdanel asked of my father and Indis with earnest, listening to my responses silently as she always did.

"The hour grows late," she observed after a long time, looking up at the stars.

"I should best go then," I agreed, turning to go. Then I stopped and turned back to her. "Should I come again tomorrow?"

"The day after," Nerdanel offered, a breeze stirring the folds of her simple dress and the curls of her coppery hair, "Tomorrow will be busy. My father and I are going into town to sell some of our wares, and--"

There was a rustling in the grass beside Nerdanel's bare feet, and, without warning, a plump rabbit hopped out before her. With a shriek of alarm, she jumped in startled surprise and clung to me. When she saw the dusky-furred animal regarding us with a confused expression, its downy nose twitching in bewilderment, she laughed and looked up at me. Our faces were bare inches apart, and the silence was acute as I became aware of her hands loosely grasping my shoulders. Her smile faded to something serious and beautiful, her eyes deep as the raw dark woods upon the faraway mountains.

Chewing my lip, I stepped away from the clumsy embrace first.

"The day after it shall be, then. Good night, Nerdanel."

If I had not been so dazed by these strange new feelings for Nerdanel that I found within myself, perhaps I would have listened more intently to the talk running through my house when I arrived home that night. Indis' child was to be born, very soon.

I awoke almost laughably early on the day I was to meet Nerdanel, and left the house for the edges of the city before I saw overmuch of my father or the others. My thoughts did not dwell on Indis or the unborn child, and I had little worry or heedfulness to spare.

When I came to Mahtan's camp, he was at his forge again, and he looked up only briefly to see me. He bent into a small bow before returning to his work. Nerdanel stood on the brink of the camp, eyes gazing far out upon the fields bathed in the holy light of the two Trees. Her limber form was utterly still, her lawless hair swept back into a riotous torrent of copper by the winds that flitted along the Calacirya. Though Nerdanel's face was turned from me, there was no surprise in her face as she turned to see me come. In the splendor of the Trees, I seemed to see her anew, and marveled at her untroubled white face with its gentle, bright eyes.

She extended her hand to me, and I instinctively took it in my own. She slowly walked out onto the plains, pace evened and unhurried, and I followed.

"Is your mother alive?" I asked as we walked, the blades of grass brushing at my soft-soled shoes and whispering against Nerdanel's bare, snowy-skinned feet. I realized the folly of the question at once--of course her mother was alive; Míriel was the first and only Elda to die here.

Nerdanel kept her eyes upon the horizon, and either took no notice of the ridiculousness of such a question or ignored it, for she replied slowly, "She awaits the return of her husband and daughter in the Pelóri Mountains, near the Sea."

"Is she talented in blacksmithing, like your father?"

"No. Her gift is for song, like most women of the Eldar. My father alone has taught me all I know of metalworking."

Nerdanel spoke truthfully when she said it was rare for a woman to work with the metals that were found in the veins of the earth. While women of the Eldalië were as skilled as and equal to the men in body and mind, they did not find pleasure in the same pastimes that we held dear. As I brooded over this thought, Nerdanel turned and looked back upon the brightness of Tirion behind us, her face bright with the blazing magnificence of the city.

"I have never seen such a place as Tirion," she murmured, eyes quietly devouring the pristine walls and the towers that rose palely radiant over the land and the green slopes of Túna. "I was raised in the mountains near the Bay of Eldamar, where the trees are the only towers to be seen. Often I wished to see such a splendid city, to break free of the trammels of the wood. To see the plains and wide skies."

"But Tirion is a cage," I objected, following her gaze to the city. My jaded eyes held none of Nerdanel's awe. "Perhaps for an idle time, it is a fine place to dwell, but the walls guard us from the life and opulence of the mountains and rivers and grasses beneath the stars. There, I would find my freedom."

Nerdanel laughed in admiration and tenderness, the sound sweeter than birdsong or any other thing I could think of, and again took my hand in hers as we gazed upon Tirion together. Astonished by the contact, I glanced down at our clasped hands, my mouth dry in puzzlement. Nerdanel looked up at me, her eyes shining with the many stars reflected in their passionate depths, a smile slowly spreading like a timid thing upon her face.

Unable to stop myself, I bent my head and kissed her, and for a moment, all was still as I held her close, and I forgot everything for her. The starlight, the glistening beauty of Tirion, the Trees, the shining plains, the world itself--they all faded and faltered and dimmed in my mind, and I shed all my suddenly mundane cares to encircle her in my arms and feel the whisper-soft brush of her mouth on mine and whisper her name over and over in her ear as if it would bind her to me forever.

When we parted, Nerdanel's arms loosened about me, and her smile grew bittersweet as she saw my sadness, the dark thoughts that still lurked behind my eyes.

"Can nothing, not good humor nor laughter nor love, save you from your troubles, Finwion?" She asked me in a voice so quiet I had to strain to hear, "Even I can do nothing to help. I knew that the moment I saw you standing on the shores of the Sea. You are haunted by sorrows that are as many as the stars, and you are sown with the seeds of troubles that will only grow in time. Will you not lose your grief, even for a day?" She bowed her head in our shared sorrow, and I lowered my forehead to meet hers, forcing her to meet my eyes and confront the unassailable answer.

It was strange. We were blissfully in love--I knew it--but somehow we were aggrieved by the most virulent of woes at the same time. It was terrible for me to accept that if I were only able to sever myself from my dismay, my spite, and my hate, Nerdanel and I would be free to live and love in peace, for as long as the earth remained. I wished not for the last time that I _could_ let go of the anguish of the years that had passed since my mother's death.

"Nerdanel, my troubles are my own. Please, do not try to shoulder them," I begged. I could sooner bear the weight of the sky upon my back than the thought of causing her the pain I had known for so long. She was not born to live a life such as mine, so full of torment and unease.

But when I saw her expression of determination, I knew she would not let me brush her off so easily. Pity burned to life in her eyes, and she held me close again, murmuring low as she stroked my bent head, "Forget, please forget, dear Finwion. Do not let these harsh fears worry at you for ever. . ."

And for a brief time, I did.


	5. Chapter Five: The Heir

_Chapter Five: The Heir_

Nerdanel and I returned to her father's encampment in silence. Our hands were clasped as tight as we could manage without causing each other pain, and our faces must have seen dark with a sorrow seemingly too old for us to bear. I said a hasty farewell to the father and his daughter, and made my way home, dazed and unsteady.

I knew something was wrong the minute I entered my father's house. Finwë came to greet me in the anteroom, arms extended in welcome. His face bore a strange, cryptic expression--a mixture of taut-drawn worry and happy relief. When he saw me, pity entered his eyes and his face grew entirely somber.

"Oh, my son," he murmured, and held me close. I went slack in his arms, but did not resist. Something, though I could not name it then, was beginning to frighten and confuse me. All memory of my day with Nerdanel evaporated, along with all its happiness, and I looked my father in the eye with pure distrust written in my gaze. Never had I looked at him so before.

"What has happened?" I asked, words slipping slowly from my lips as though reluctant to leave.

"I wish I could tell you." The regretful tone in my father's voice both heightened and terrified my curiosity. "But--"

"But what?" I demanded, startled by my father's unwillingness. He had never hesitated to confide in me before. _What force of perverse malice had so enmeshed itself within this house in my absence?_

Finwë gave me a knowing look, as if he knew well that I was sowing the seeds of my own undoing. Yet he spoke then out of purest love for me. "Indis gave birth to our second child today. A son."

I staggered back in horror, a pit opening within me and swallowing my insides whole. My hands flew out behind me to catch myself but found nothing, and it was only just in time that I found my balance. Staring at him in disbelief, I almost wished he had withheld the tidings from me. It was almost as if he had said _an heir_ instead of _a son_. The dread that had been gnawing at me in the silence before his answer mercifully released, leaving only a greater emptiness in its wake.

"A _son_?" I hardly realized my echo of his words, hardly knew that my voice was instinctively tinged with rising anger. Hurt threaded its way through my heart as the rage grew, a lesser poisonous thing seeking asylum from its larger, more violent cousin. Was I not enough? Was I not his heir, the heir to the kingship of the Noldor? I flinched away from Finwë's remorseful eyes. His every glance, wretched and beseeching as it was, seemed like a mortal blow to my spirit.

I took one last surprised look at my frozen father, then fled from the house. I ran through the door that had been left open upon my arrival and out into the gathering dark. That night, I had no desire to live.

I spent the long hours of darkness outside the gates of the house, my face tilted up to the stars. Even the comfort of sleep was denied to me for some time. My greatest wish in that hour was to lay myself down and die, as my mother had, and be the second to die in Aman.

It was deathly silent upon the lonesome hill, and the stars offered no pity, so I wept silently, shamelessly throughout the night. My tears would stop intermittently, only to return at the slightest thought of what awaited me in the place I had once called home. The city laid before me was still and slumbering, and no light shone from the darkened windows of the houses. If perhaps I had been in a lighter mood, I would have delighted in the hush and cold beauty that Telperion's light brought. But then I saw the world as only a dark cage in which I stood trapped, to be scorned by the winds and tormented by the shadows.

No one had any use for me, no one loved me. I was stunned and alone, lost in the web of night, with only my wounding hatred and miserable uneasiness, longing to die in the inner fires that burned constantly within me. So estranged was I in that night that I gave no thought at all to Nerdanel or her love, her trust, her hope.

Slowly, over the course of those creeping hours, my hurt grew steadily into a hot anger, anger and loathing of Indis and her accursed children. For the sake of my father, the last remnant of my birthright, I withheld my spite from his name. But as my wounds were haphazardly cauterized by my fiery resentment, I maledicted _them_ over and over. Indis and her son. Between each surge of pain that came with my heartbeats, I swore passionately that _I_, and I alone, would be my father's heir, despite all that would stop me. The fire that was lit that night, fed by bitterness and ill will, would slowly die over the years in Aman, until a person I now loathe to name came to wake it again, stirring it up from the smoldering embers to spell the doom of all Noldor.

Finally, I managed to find feverish, troubled sleep. Nightmarish though it was, it brought me what little ease could be given to me then. When I awoke, the skies were bright again with the light of Laurelin, and the city stirred at the foot of the hill. With a groan and a stretch, I stood wearily to my feet, almost collapsing again as the memory of the night before returned.

I turned to face the dooryard of the house, and saw my father standing there, watching me in silence, expression both bemused and saddened. Suddenly ashamed by his state, I turned away. Finwë had no wish to see me here. I could go elsewhere for his sake. Live somewhere else, where he would never have to lay eyes on me and see Míriel's eyes staring back.

"Finwion," I heard him say behind me. It was not a behest, nor was it a curse. My father said it simply, plainly, as if weighing its value.

Confused, I turned to face him. He walked to the still-open gate, then stopped and stood before me, dark eyes not alight with their usual laughter, but flickering with something almost like pride, thought that could not possibly be.

"Finwion," Finwë said again, and this time the word was fraught with love. "I gave you that name. Do you know what it means?"

He asked so compellingly I could not help but reply blindly, "Son of Finwë. It means Son of Finwë."

My father nodded, but did not smile. "Yes. That is its meaning. And it also means that whatever sons come to me in the years to come, you shall always come first in reckoning and in my heart. I have not abandoned you. I will never abandon you, my son."

The words _my son_ lit as lightly as birds upon my heart, and my anger began to falter for the first time.

"But then why do you seek other sons?" I asked, not willing to be won over so easily.

Finwë's eyes strayed to the horizon, his brow furrowing in thought. "I wish for a family that will be mighty enough to be the ruling house of the Noldor for many years to come."

"I am enough," I declared bluntly.

Now Finwë did smile, though there was a trace of sadness in his face as well. "Oh, you are enough, and more, Finwion. It is as your mother named you to be."

I abandoned all bitterness now. This was a story I knew well, and delighted to hear. "What did she name me?" I asked with all the curiosity of a child, though the answer was not unknown to me.

"_Fëanáro_. Spirit of Fire. And your fires have been especially heated and quick-tempered of late. I love you greatly, perhaps more than you know, and that love increases tenfold when I see your mother in you. Be at peace, Finwion, and cool that fire. I swear Ingoldo shall never replace you, either in my mind or in the matter of naming my heir."

At first, I was confused by the name _Ingoldo_, but then I realized it was the name of my half-brother. I felt anger, but it was edged with a fierce hope.

"But you promise you will not exile me or leave me for my half-brother?"

Finwë nodded. "Never. I shall always, always love you, my son." Almost crying with joy, I embraced my father.

I would never forget that day for as long as I lived.

Reassured by my father's promise, I lived the year without complaint, though I never fully opened to Indis or her children, and remained close to my father when I could.

Nerdanel and her father made ready to leave in the winter, on Ingoldo's first birthday, so I seized the opportunity to excuse myself from the house and go to see them off. I spent the day helping them dismantle the tents, then load the heavy forge and its tools onto Mahtan's sturdy cart. I took special care with the blacksmithing supplies, and my hands lingered upon the well-worn grip of the hammer and the coolness of the resolute anvil.

When the day dimmed, all was ready for them to leave. As Mahtan went to lead the horses from where they grazed and harness them to the cart, Nerdanel took both my hands and held them to her heart.

"Will we see each other again?" She asked, her fierce, sad eyes searching mine.

I looked down at her pale, worried face and felt her hands tremble. "I will find you in the mountains," I promised, pressing a youthful kiss into her soft, reddish curls, "You said your home was there. I will find you, even if it takes a hundred years."

Nerdanel nodded, but the solemnity did not leave her face. "Do you promise you will come?"

"Yes, I will, with the coming of next winter," I told her, my voice sincere, and she embraced me tightly in gratitude. We stood fast together for a time, her head nestled in the crook of my shoulder as I stroked the gentle curve of her spine and closed my eyes.

We did not hear Mahtan return to the cart with the horses, but he said nothing to us, and merely proceeded with the packing alone.

Author's Note

Well, I've hit the five-chapter-mark, and I hope you're enjoying the story so far. I'm certainly enjoying the writing aspect; Fëanor has always rocked my world. Thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed. I love hearing what you have to say and I'm immeasurably flattered by the praise some of you have given me. The sixth chapter is on its way, I promise, and until then, continue to be your awesome selves. I love you all!

Blodeuedd


	6. Chapter Six: Indis

_Chapter Six: Indis_

Three years passed before I saw Nerdanel again, and the year before I left Tirion for the house of Mahtan seemed the longest of my young life. Even in late autumn, the time seemed to stutter and tarry, as if reluctant to ever truly ebb. I grew more restive and impatient than usual, and withdrew within myself until I seemed to be naught but a pale ghost in even my eyes. I did not even seek out my father for the talks we were wont to enjoy. But when we did meet, passing each other in the wide halls of his house, his dark eyes told me in the tongue of silence that he held true to his promise. I was still the eldest, still the most beloved.

In the meantime, Ingoldo grew and matured swiftly. He was the delight and pride of the entire house save me. Even at four years old, he darted about the house and dooryard on swift feet that had seldom been still since he had learned to walk. His golden hair was his crowning feature at this young age; later, it would be his statuesque features and commanding eyes, but for now it was his soft, shining hair, bright and rich as the light of Laurelin. This attribute simply added to the aura of mirth and childish bliss which so endeared him to his parents and attendants and all who met him. But when he caught sight of me, as I was slinking off to skulk in the dooryard or in my chamber, he stood silent and somber, regarding me with a confused, musing sobriety that many children his age went without.

It was clear Ingoldo was frightened or, at the least, awed by me. I was the one person who never smiled to see him enter a room, never laughed and clapped when he proudly displayed a new toy or trinket. Sometimes, he would summon up enough brazen mettle to try to clamber up upon my lap, like he so often did with Finwë. I would bear him there until none remained to see, and then gently push him off. He would catch himself and look up at me with those questioning eyes, but never shed a tear of disappointment or chagrin in my presence.

On my part, I avoided him, and ignored him when we were together. Finwë may have promised me the kingship of the Noldor, but Ingoldo was still a threat, a reminder of Indis' power over my family, and so I regarded her son with hate and mistrust, even in those young days. One day, in the waning months of autumn, I passed Indis in the hallways of my father's house.

I quickened my pace and dropped my eyes as she neared and passed, but from behind me, I heard her call, "Finwion."

I turned to face her, watching her with insolent dubiousness. Indis met my eyes uncertainly, almost fearfully, and she wrung her hands, so pale against the vivid jewel blue of her frock.

"Can I speak with you? For but a moment?" She asked, voice steady, though her moving hands and almost hunched postured belied the confidence she feigned. I nodded wordlessly, suspiciously, and waited for her to speak again.

"Nine years have we dwelt here together, beneath the same roof," Indis began. As she spoke, she seemed to gain courage and stature, drawing herself up nobly once more. Her hair shone in the light streaming from a nearby window. "And in those nine years, neither of us has bent to the other. I see that you shall never willingly do so, but perhaps in the least we can accept each other for who and what we are." She faltered, seeing the contempt in my eyes. "Has your father not mentioned to you that he desires this peace as well?"

"Then he desires in vain," I said coldly, "Things shall be as they have ever been. Because of you, things are not as they shouldbe."

Indis flinched, but bit back whatever retort she secretly wanted to say. "Finwion, be at ease. Why must I be such a grief to you?"

"Why?" I laughed. My voice sounded harsher than even I had planned. "Because Míriel is gone."

"I had nothing to do with that," she replied evenly, eyes flaring with a soft light of indignation.

"Lord Ingwë told me of you. He said you loved my father even when he was wed to another. He said you _waited for her to die_!"

Indis blanched, but replied, "You twist my brother's words. I loved your father. That is all."

"Míriel loved him too!" I answered, hardly hearing my own voice and realizing it had risen to a shout. Indis' face fell, angry but reluctant to fight back in kind, and she looked as if I had broken something precious of hers.

_Probably her pride_, I thought with a rueful hope. Now, I know I should have stopped then and turned to go. I should have ended it with that harsh note. But I had lit the fire of my own destruction and could only watch as it kindled into a blaze.

"I wish you were dead," I hissed venomously. I hardly understood the words I spoke; I knew only that they were lethal beyond any other thing yet devised in this immortal land. Death was a curse that no Elda ever wished upon another.

Indis' hand flew to her throat in shock and hurt surprise.

"How dare you!" she spat furiously, but her voice trembled. Her dignified honor and bearing were shaken. My words had dealt her a fearsome blow. I found myself smiling through my own shock, besotted with my victory. For a minute, I was happy. Then coldness sank upon me and pervaded my being, quenching my defiance but leaving my anger to scar my heart.

Suddenly afraid of my own daring, I turned and kept walking up the hall, the pounding of hot blood in my ears spurring me onward. Behind me, faintly heard and fully ignored as I slammed shut the door of my room, was the sound of Indis weeping. It was only after I was alone in the silence of my chamber that a sudden, cold thought knifed into my heart.

_What was Finwë going to do when he heard?_

Unable to imagine what my words to Indis would cost me, I made ready to leave for the Pelóri Mountains and Nerdanel that very day. I made myself busy with the saddling of my horse and the packing of food, letting the sheer commonplaceness of the tasks cool my anger and my fear. I would have left unnoticed and unlamented, if not for Findis, who came into the stables and saw me preparing to depart.

"What are you doing?" she asked abruptly, voice admonishing.

I wheeled about in surprise, startling my horse. Findis looked up at me with her deep blue eyes, her expression reminding me both of Finwë and Indis all in one. I glared back at her. Ever since she had been old enough to see I cared nothing for her mother, Findis had regarded me with something between outright fear and confusion. It was also clear to her that, over the years as had learned to speak and look and sing and act like her moth, my affection for her, which had been founded by the ties of blood alone, was faded and stained with hate.

"Go away," I muttered impatiently, calming my snorting horse and turning back to my work. Findis was not Nerdanel. Findis knew nothing of my spirit, so what could she do to soothe that which she could not comprehend?

"Father wants to see you," Findis recited in protest, proud to be bearing a message but sullen that the important message had to be brought to me.

"At once," she added when I continued to ignore her.

"Well, I cannot see him today," I said in a light, falsely reckless tone, "Tell him I love him and to expect me in a year or so. Perhaps more."

Findis' mouth dropped open in shock. When I truly turned my attention on my younger half-sister and let my mind delve into hers, I saw she was also somewhat envious of my seemingly flippant rebellion. Noldor, particularly Noldor of his bloodline, were supposed to obey my father without a second thought. I felt some faint pride to have stunned her so, but I kept it hidden. I had learned that, if the minds of others were so plain for me to read, I should do all that was in my power to hide the workings of my own.

"Are you leaving?" She asked breathlessly at last, blinking as if awakening from a dream.

I nodded briskly, mounted up upon my horse and, after sidestepping where Findis stood, spurred my steed to a gallop that sped me swiftly away from the house that stood upon the summit of Túna.

The sensation of riding free beneath the stars and the soft veil of the sky still proved to be as potent an elixir for my weary heart as it had been years ago. I traveled through both night and day with eager indifference, until my doughty horse and I were equally exhausted and spent. Sometimes I rode for so long that I would slumber in the saddle, only to be shaken awake again by the rhythmic gait of the animal beneath me. Always was there a familiar aura of peace and lonely bliss that covered me, keeping me safe from my trailing memories.

Once on my journey, when I made a rare stop to spend the night in a sleepy copse of trees, I even dreamed that I was a child again, cradled in Míriel's arms. I forgot myself in childish simplicity, nearly overwhelmed by an all-enveloping sense of safety as she hummed a sad, haunting tune and held me close. When even that song faded, I could hear her whisper my name to me, over and over, until it became meaningless, merely a pretty sound to soothe a boy on a dark night.

When I awoke, I lay still for a long time, heart drowsy with unreal happiness, gazing up at the many stars and the slow, spellbound movements of the leaves.

Since I rode not to the Bay of Eldamar itself but instead only to the feet of the Pelóri, I had less of a distance to travel, thus arriving in the foothills of the great mountains as the days darkened. Even in winter, the grasses and trees that grew upon the slopes of the Pelóri were as green as they had been when they had first taken root, their lush and verdant color rising up from amid the snow. As I rode higher into the lofty peaks, I could see the white-capped, magnificent peak of Taniquetil, rising imperiously from the hills, its summit brushing the feet of the arrogant stars.

On the third day of my travels through the mountains, I found a small, shaded path through the trees. I knew almost at once that this trail, bare of snow and warmed with Laurelin's light, was the path to the house of Mahtan. I dismounted as if in reverence and led my horse along the meandering footpath, sometimes having to duck beneath the low-hanging boughs of the trees that seemed to bend over to watch our slow, leisurely progress. As I walked, the forest grew more tightly knit, the trees taller and bedecked in leaves, the trail threading a circuitous corridor among their thick trunks and the lush undergrowth. The land was soundless and still, its silence cold with the frost of a windless winter's day. I dared not break the hush that seemed to pervade everything; even my horse brought the sound of his hooves to near silence as he stepped delicately over leaf and stone and bare, beaten earth. Above our heads, the trees stabbed like jagged blades of green into the icy blue sky, where clouds billowed like the sails of godly ships.

I reached Mahtan's dwelling when the last vestiges of Laurelin's light faded and the argent gleam of Telperion waxed, gracing the starved faces of every upturned stone and tree like a blessing. Even before I came within sight of the house, I could see the humble yet merry firelight glowing forth from among the trees like candlelight through a lattice. When I at last saw the home, I was surprised by its sparse modesty. Unlike the soaring, fair towers of Tirion, the demure house hugged the ground. Even its thatched roof hunched low over the brow of the stone walls. With its simple build and nearly drab coloration, the abode seemed almost misplaced in the grandeur of Eldamar. Now I understood why Nerdanel looked on Tirion with such wonder. To be raised here, nestled safely in the heart of this ancient, lonely wood. . . It was unimaginable for me, for anyone who had been reared amid glorious avenues and heavenly plains.

My boots crunching in the fine, powdery snow, I approached the door of the house. My hand was poised to knock when the door opened abruptly, nearly blinding me with the suddenness of the firelight spilling out upon the silver wilderness.

"What traveler comes to our house in this cheerless winter?"

It was Mahtan's voice, warm but cautious. I raised my eyes and bowed humbly to the older man. A surprised smile spread across his forge-weathered face when he recognized me.

"Prince Finwion! Nerdanel told us to expect you. Come in, come in; you are more than a welcome guest here." He stepped aside to let me enter, then took the reins of my horse with another sincere smile. "I will find your mount an empty stall and a meal," he offered.

I nodded and murmured my thanks, then looked about the small room that waited for me within.

In one corner, the fire I had seen from afar burned gaily, its light dancing upon the bare stone of the hearth. The dwelling was sparsely furnished, and what little decoration there was seemed to consist of finely-wrought metalwork. My eye was caught upon the ornate working of the diverse metals, and I heard small whispers of approval and longing in the back of my mind as I examined their writhing arabesques and exquisite details.

Behind me, I heard the gentle sound of light feet on fire-warmed stone, and turned eagerly to face it, knowing who it was even before I saw Nerdanel's face, alight with happiness. Her coppery hair gleamed like burnished bronze in the firelight, and I ached to touch it.

"You came early," she said, smiling breathlessly. Even as I returned her smile, I remembered exactly why I had left home so early, and renewed suffering ached in my veins. But I hid my anguish and tried to think of something to say. As if she read my mind, she silently shook her head. She had no need for my words.

"Come, meet my mother," Nerdanel urged after a moment of this silence, taking my hand. She led me into a corner of the room where a woman sat in a simple wooden chair, bent over her embroidery. A cup, half-full of warm negus, lay forgotten on the windowsill, its firelit contours sharply contrasting with the dark snowy woods beyond. The woman lifted her head at our coming, and I saw plainly where Nerdanel had inherited her rust-colored hair.

"Who do you bring with you, Nerdanel?" Her keen, luminous eyes slid briefly to our clasped hands, but when she returned her gaze to our faces, she bore no scowl of unhappiness. More was her expression one of somber wisdom, a knowing look I had long since grown accustomed to seeing on the faces of Mahtan and Finwë. But this strange, almost saddened look faded instantly into an amiable smile of welcome that banished nearly all memory of its predecessor.

"Mother, this is Finwion, son of the King Finwë, who dwells in Tirion," Nerdanel told the woman, looking between the two of us with eagerness.

Nerdanel's mother recognized the name of my father, and bowed her head deeply.

"We are honored by your presence, Prince Finwion," she said in a low, motherly voice that reminded me of old, dark wood, "I am Falassë, wife of Mahtan."

I bowed as well, and Falassë seemed mildly surprised by the reverence, as if she had not expected me to do such a thing. "I thank you for welcoming me, Lady Falassë."

Falassë smiled again, and looked up at her daughter. "Nerdanel, bring our guest a chair; I will not be so uncouth a hostess as to refuse the Prince of the Noldor a seat. Sit for as long as you will by the fire, Prince Finwion. We will be glad of your talk and company."

As I took the seat Nerdanel had offered, I realized that it was here, in the house of Mahtan, that I felt at peace for the first time in a very long while.

Author's Note

Those of you familiar with the original drafts of this story (**Anglachel**) will notice that I've changed a few names of original characters. Even in this chapter alone, I've swapped the name of Nerdanel's mother for another. Sorry if you're confused; I'm just making the best of this 'second go-round' by using it to create names that are more true to the characters' personalities and backgrounds.

Anyway, I would like to offer my sincerest apologies to those of you who have been waiting since the beginning for this update; as my profile page mentions, I've been inordinately busy these last few months and the fault is entirely mine that I couldn't get this up sooner. The next posting will probably not be for a while as well. Please hang in there! Your encouragement and comments are what keep me (and, as a result, Fëanor) going. :-)

Best,

Blodeuedd


	7. Chapter Seven: Mahtan's Forge

_Chapter Seven: Mahtan's Forge_

Mahtan returned to the house after only a brief while, bringing the fresh scent of hay and the night with him. For many long hours Nerdanel and her family spoke to me, as the fire brightened and dimmed in a seemingly endless, immortal cycle. Falassë and her husband were eager to hear of my life in Tirion and my family, and I told them all I could, deftly hiding the resentment that simmered between son of Míriel and his new half-kin behind bright, animated talk of my father and other fair, guileless things.

Nerdanel alone knew enough of my life at home to perceive my negligence. A pensive frown twisted her gentle lips and she looked sharply at me as I spoke of Ingoldo in falsely affectionate tones, knowing something was wrong. But after a while her stiffly upright carriage softened, allayed by the fire's lapping heat and the lulling, carefree tone of my stories, and her eyes shone with a quieter glow.

When the forest's darkness grew deeper than even Telperion's light could pierce, Falassë rose during a respite in the conversation and declared she was weary from so much talk, no matter how fascinating. Gathering up Nerdanel with a motherly glance, she left the room with her daughter, going into another area of the house to sleep. Mahtan and I were left to talk further, if we would, and I felt like a grown traveler, able to talk late into the night with the lord of the house.

During one of the contented but nonetheless awkward silences that filled the red-lit room, I glanced admiringly at one of the pieces of metalwork and asked, "How long have you been practicing smithcraft?"

Mahtan's dark brow furrowed as he remembered. "Ever since I was old enough to lift a hammer or work the bellows. My father was a smith before me, in the earliest days of the World, and he has taught me much. There seems to be nothing he cannot make or contrive from metal or glass." A smile lifted the corners of his usually stern mouth. "He said often that his skill was reflected in me. But. . .despite my purported skill, Aulë has not yet sought to take me as an apprentice. He has not taken even one student in years of late. Long ago, he used to teach dozens of our kind at a time, and each of them would emerge as competent a smith or craftsman as one with years of intimate apprenticeship. Now, he seems to keep his secrets to himself, working alone in his forge." He glanced at me, face shadowed by the flickering firelight as a log crackled and crumbled into hot ashes.

I barely kept myself from letting my mouth fall open. Aulë was the Vala who loved the Noldor most, who had taught them all they knew of the world, the stars, smithcraft and other skills. He had taught us of wisdom that was almost dangerous in its profundity and truth.

"Why would he not take you?" I asked in surprise at last, gesturing to Mahtan's work, hand taking in the room with a gesture, "I see only skill in that!"

Mahtan's gaze rested upon me so heavily and for so long that I almost became uncomfortable. "I hear he waits," he replied simply, something like strange wonder in his quiet voice.

"For what? For whom, if not you?"

The older man shook his head, smiling at my curiosity, and turned his eyes towards the dull, feeble redness of the fire. "For one worthy of the secrets that Aulë has kept for so long." His words were vague and left me itching to ask more, but I pressed no further.

Mahtan sighed heavily into the silence, as if he wished to tell me something but found he could not. After a moment, he said in a lower, despairing voice, "My years grow many, Finwion, and I doubt now that Aulë shall send for me. So I turn myself to other things, as I must. I am now fit to be only a mentor, not a pupil. I have taught Istarnië much of what I know. She has learned quickly, even though it is not a woman's wont to learn the arts of the forge, and she brings me pride. It is enough to help me forget the disappointment."

He looked again at me, noticing my flush at the mention of Nerdanel.

"She loves you," he remarked, almost as if reassuring me, "More than you know."

This time I found I was unable to hold the weight of his wise eyes, and looked away, engrossing myself in the dazzling complexity of the firelight upon one of his artful brass designs.

"I love her too," I mumbled. My face grew hotter, and the fire seemed cool now in compare to the searing tenderness that filled me at the mention of Mahtan's daughter.

"I know," Mahtan replied, then turned back to watch the fire's many bright tongues consume the hapless wood. "I fear for her," he said softly, most likely thinking the words went unheard. Confused, I said nothing. The fire murmured and snapped to itself, and Mahtan turned back to me.

"Come, the hour grows late, even for me, and I will show you the room where you can sleep."

He led me to an unpretentious but pleasant room, small and empty save for a bed and a ewer and vessel for water. Then he left me alone in the dark of the silent chamber, and I crawled sleepily into the clean bed, a sigh of contentment escaping me, and I forgot Mahtan's strange, prophetic words without even wondering what they meant.

I woke happier and freer than I had ever felt in Tirion since Indis' arrival. Laurelin's light was still a faint wash of cool winter gold in the sky, but the birds were already stirring in the snow-wreathed trees.

The minute I awoke I heard it, so faint in my ears I thought it was but a deception of my drowsy mindthe hammering of Mahtan in his forge. Hearing the sound, I was again tugged at by a fierce, nameless desire that permeated what felt like my very core, and for a long while I remained sitting up in the bed, motionless and bewitched. Finally, I was released, with only the bleak knowledge that all I could do for now was listen to the heartbeat of the hammer and wait.

Shaking my mind free of the strange feeling, I dressed and left my room. The sweetly neutral smell of baking bread combined with the bitter scent of herbs met me the instant I set foot outside my door; Falassë must have been readying the morning's meal. Nerdanel stood at the open door, gazing at the trees that lay beyond, her face pale and thoughtful in the morning light. Every detail of her seemed beautifulher hand's loose, rapturous grasp upon the doorframe, the pensive sweep of her gray gaze, the parting of her lips to draw breath. But her dreaming was not deep, for when I came near she turned about and smiled.

"Is this hour not too early for a prince of the Noldor?" She asked teasingly, laughing as she looked up into my eyes. "Perhaps you are truly one of us at heart."

"Perhaps," I murmured, brushing a kiss on her forehead. Nerdanel's smile was silenced as she remembered something, and her eyes darkened. My mirth also faded, and I looked down at her curiously, ready to hear what she would say.

"Why did you lie to Mother and Father last night?" She asked, tone deceptively light.

"I would not trouble them with the burden of my worries," I replied.

"I bear your worries well enough," she replied stubbornly.

"But did I ask for you to bear them for me?" I pointed out.

Her brows arched as she mulled over this. "You are too cunning for your own good, clever son of Finwë," she replied finally, giving me a tender glance before turning her eyes back to the trees, "I love you too much and too well for my own good. But promise me you will tell them your secrets later."

"I will," I agreed, and for a moment her gaze cut into me like a scythe upon wheat, asking for the truth. At last, she found what she sought, and her eyes softened. Suppressing a sigh of relief, I turned back to look out with her upon the trees that encircled the house, sheltering it from the world beyond.

Mahtan returned from the forge to eat breakfast with us and begin the day's chores. When afternoon came, he made ready to leave again.

Before he left, I found him and asked, "Please, may I go with you? I have never seen a true forge."

"Very well, friend Finwion," Mahtan agreed, "Follow me."

He led from the house to a thicket nearby. Smoke rose from a chimney that seemed to jut out of the earth itself, while nearby a stairwell delved into the grassy earth, the golden light dancing along the solemn gray stone. Mahtan descended down the stairs easily, clearly accustomed to the notion of an underground forge, while I followed at a slower pace.

As I descended down the first few steps, a furious reluctance rose in me, refusing to let me leave the sky and light. Like all Noldor, I loved the freedom of the plains and the wide skies stretching forever overhead. But as we went deeper, into the dark, hidden heart of the earth, I felt safe and welcome. I even began to feel loath to return to the world above.

The stairwell was dim and cool, and the rare torch, set in sconces along the stairs, cast long, shuddering shadows upon the unadorned walls. The only sounds were those of Mahtan's steady tread and my own steady breathing. As we went deeper, it grew warmer; the fires of the forge were nearing. Mahtan at last halted and turned to me, his face starkly silhouetted by the merry firelight.

"We are here, Finwion. Welcome to my forge."

I walked down the last few stairs, almost stumbling in my rising excitement, and looked about myself in wonder. The heat from the room swept over me like an angry wave, but I paid it no mind. The forge was a small, simple room, arrayed about with strange, numerous tools of the blacksmithing craft. A great fire, the source of the nearly unbearable warmth, blazed in the kiln set in a corner of the room, while an anvil sat squarely in the midst of it all. I felt my sight blur with bitter tears; it was like coming home after a very long time.

From behind me, I heard Mahtan saying, "My father built it for me, long ago. It is not the equal of the forge of Aulë, in Valinor, nor is it even like those forges belonging to the nimble smiths of Tirion, but I take pride in it."

"It is beautiful," I stammered, looking around the room in one last hungry glance before turning to Mahtan, "More beautiful than anything."

Mahtan smiled, slight creases forming about his eyes. "Then my forge shall always be open to you, son of Finwë. I trust you."

"Thank you," I offered feebly, not knowing what else to say.

"There is no need for thanks. Come, let us begin. You may work the bellows, if you wish." Without another word, Mahtan set about his work, and I watched him carefully as I worked the bellows for him, taking in everything he did. Many hours must have passed, but I did not grow bored or impatient. Indeed, it almost seemed too soon when Mahtan looked up, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and declared it was time to leave.

Long after Nerdanel's family had gone to bed, I remained awake. The thought of the waiting forge kept returning to my head, imploring me to return.

To go to the forge alone! The very peril of the thought exhilarated me, and over and over I remembered Mahtan's words: _My forge shall always be open to you, son of Finwë. I trust you._ At last, I gave in, and rose. I would go to the forge.

I felt like a thief, stealing out of the house and through the dark woods to the stairs that led into the deep, but in my heart rose an irrepressible need that blinded me to the scolding watch of the stars and deafened me to the caviling whispers of the leaves. I readily descended the stairs, returning to the womb of the earth. My pulse quickened with the sensation of safety from the prying hands and eyes of the world above. I was alone; save for a voice in my mind that I knew was not my own, a voice that spoke to me gently and encouraged me onward.

The forge was silent and dark. Only a few torches still burned at this late hour, and even their light guttered occasionally. I knew my time was short. If I was to do anything, I would have to do it now. My eyes slid over to the mighty hammer that rested on the anvil where Mahtan had left it. As if spellbound, I took the haft of the hammer in my hand and raised it.

It was like attempting to lift the sky, at first. I nearly collapsed under the tool's weight, but the voice chided me softly for my weakness and advised me to endeavor again. Taking a deep breath, I tightened my one-handed grip on the haft and lifted with all my might. It was unmistakably easier this time, and I even managed to hold the thing aloft for a moment. When my muscles screamed for release, I set down the hammer again, hand trembling with the effort.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember all that I had seen Mahtan do. It was impossible. I could not recall every miniscule detail! I called out in my mind for the voice to come again and aid me in my despair. It was silent for a moment, as if considering, then it whispered all the missing, forgotten pieces to me, again and again until they seemed branded into my being.

"Thank you," I whispered to no one, then set about to work.

The forge, which had at first been so silent, grew alive with noise. I worked until the last torch guttered and died, blindly making things and melting them back down so Mahtan would never notice the loss. Just before the changing of the lights, I made my way back to the house in near-darkness.

Author's Note

I'm delighted to see that my "fan base" (just let me call you that because it is so delectable a term) hasn't diminished with time. Thank you for your patience, kindness, and advice.

In special response to an issue raised in concerned reviews from **Unsung Heroine **and **RavenLady**: Yes, Ingoldo/Fingolfin does officially have dark hair, and Tolkien has made several blatant references to this. I was aware of this fact as I both researched and drafted _Fire_. However, in a willful (and, in retrospect, a little 'Fëanorish') act of defiance in the face of truth, I decided to turn Ingoldo's hair blond. But not without a typically convoluted reason did I do this. I believe (and you are welcome to laugh at my oddness) that the contrast of dark and light hair draws a more literal dividing line between the two elder sons of Finwë, further pronouncing their fundamental disparity. Golden hair attaches Ingoldo to his mother, while Fëanor's dark locks link him to his father. This way, both sons physically favor the parent that they admire or inwardly resemble. Furthermore, I believe that this visual connotation would only push Fëanor further off the edge in later years, when Melkor filled his head with suspicions about his younger brother (the golden-haired son of the equally fair-haired Indis) usurping the throne of the Noldor. And finally, my favorite reason for my artistic license is because it allows me to spew sappy similes and metaphors about light and Laurelin and gold whenever Ingoldo is around. Had he been dark-haired, I would not have found such a vent. :-)

But enough of my ranting. Until Chapter 8.

Blodeuedd


	8. Chapter Eight: In the Light of Telperion

_Chapter Eight: In the Light of Telperion_

In the days that came after, I went each night to the forge, instructed by the strange, powerful voice that was foreign to my spirit. If he knew of my nightly forays, Mahtan said nothing. At least, he seemed to regard me the same--we often went on long walks in the forest with Nerdanel, or talked with Falassë of the things that went on beyond the door of their house, beyond the last of their trees. Content with this life, the tension I had borne with me from home began to fade, and I eased into the blithe, rhythmic cycle that was asked of me.

I almost desperately took joy in the simplest of things--the sweetness of Nerdanel's smile, the solid feel of the heavy blacksmith's hammer in my hand, the laughter of Mahtan as he told some story, the birdsong that I awoke to each morning. The pleasantness of these pure, plain sensations provided a thin and fragile shelter from the onslaught of memories from Tirion, and though sometimes I could not stop the constant siege, I was sheltered nonetheless.

Winter ebbed and spring came. The woods were alight with the full, golden glow of Laurelin and the sweet, flutelike song of the birds, and every leaf was rich and passionate with the blossoming, heady scent of nectar. The days grew longer, and Telperion's light grew rare and brief. My trips to the forge grew as few and far between as the light of the elder Tree, for I feared to be caught by Laurelin's light, though sense told me if punishment I _did_ receive, it would be tempered and none too harsh. After all, Mahtan had told me I was welcome to his forge. But still, somehow, a part of me, which had grown cautious and mistrusting after my father took Indis to wife, told me to dread chastisement if caught.

One night, after many spent in my bed and not in the forge, my yearning overcame me, and I slunk from my room and out into the warm, dark air of night. The shadows and silver light were cleanly divided yet frail that night, as if newly made. The trees stood tall, limbs stretched in silent wonder to the black, star-pierced sky. Over the brow of the hill, the light of Telperion spilt like an eager young stream, bathing all it touched in silver glory. For a moment, I lingered and stood motionless, looking up at the skies in awe, reveling in the cool, enfolding stillness. I wondered how my father must have felt so many, many years ago, upon the starlit shores of Cuiviénen, when the Eldar had first appeared and beheld for the first time in their newly-opened eyes the thousands of stars that hung so far above them. Then, the Trees had yet to be made, and the starlight would have been pure and clear, unscathed and unsullied by any other bold, arrogant light that dared give them contest.

It gave me a strange, brave shudder in my heart to think of the sacred light of the Trees as insolent or disdainful, but the feeling did not totally put me at unease. It was something I had felt my whole life--the sense I looked with clear eyes upon all that went unseen by the blinded eyes of my people, the impression that I had tasted some higher knowledge. In those days, my defiance had been only a small, sputtering flame, but in my later years, the flame would be fed on defiance and sorrow, and would grow to a crackling fire that burned and consumed all of me.

I did not dwell heavily on such things that night, but turned my face to the sky and looked with curiosity on the stars, faint and dim through the veil of Telperion's radiant light.

"Finwion."

Startled, I turned about; it was Nerdanel, standing motionless in the long grasses, watching me with the same sad, wise look in her eyes that she had gazed upon me with at the Bay of Eldamar. But now worry and love were intermingled with her somber understanding, making a bittersweet combination that tugged at my heart.

"What are you doing out here? Are you not tired?" she asked, "Do you wish to leave here?" Her voice lowered at the last few words, to a tone just an arm's reach from a whisper, as if she wished it were not true.

"No. I--I wanted to see the stars," I murmured. It was partly true, and I could have told her the whole truth, but my unwavering vigilance held my heart's weakness in check. It felt awful to lie to her, inconsequential as the falsehood was, and I wished I could brashly speak my mind, as I so often did on other occasions.

"Finwion, do not lie to me." I swear I could see her heart breaking in her eyes, so true and profound was her pleading expression. My very spirit seemed to wither in self-hate.

"I was going to work in Mahtan's forge," I admitted, with little no reluctance, glad to have a wispy truth to speak to lighten my cheerless, guilt-ridden mood.

"You could have told me that," Nerdanel said, smiling as her sad expression faded, and she walked to my side. Her dark eyes gazed deep into the night, seeing all, encompassing all, both with the alertness of a sentinel and the thoughtfulness of a sage. "Mahtan would not mind such a silly thing even if you were to enter his forge, snatch the very hammer from his hand, and set to work right before his eyes. Why must you think you need to lie to everyone who comes your way, beloved one? The world would not chastise you if you told her your thoughts; she would only perhaps love you more. Have you not told me your thoughts, and am I not the better for it? You are wise beyond your years, and the knowledge you hold would relieve the hurts of our existence, if you were not so chary and distrustful."

"I do not lie to everyone," I argued quietly, "I have let some know my thoughts."

"Whom do you not lie to, then?"

"My father," I said at once, then thought more carefully. "To you, mostly, and I would it were always that I could tell you the truth. I do not lie to Indis."

There must have been a tone of bitterness or displeasure in my voice, for Nerdanel put her hand in mine, and asked, "What has she done to you now?"

"It was my doing," I confessed reluctantly, feeling a little guilty, but my angry memories overcame my guilt. "I hate her. She deserved it."

"You evade my question, Finwion, whether you do so deliberately or no. What did you do?" Nerdanel persisted, voice quiet, but with a tinge of authority that clearly urged me to answer.

"I--argued with her. I was insolent. And--" I almost had to force the next words from my mouth, for while the memory brought me a feeling of victory, it also told me how far I had fallen. "I told her I wished her death."

For all the great love Nerdanel bore for me, she did not stifle her gasp of horror. I turned my head away, not wanting to see the hurt and shock I had caused her, not wanting to see the light leave her eyes.

"No, Finwion. You did not," she stammered in denial, her hand slipping from mine.

"I did," I sighed heavily, bending my head as the heavy weight of her dismay fell upon me as well. While our love tied us together so tightly that our devotion and tenderness were shared, it made us also share our sorrows and grief. That strange bond would not break, for now.

"Why, Finwion?" Nerdanel asked at last.

"Because," I whispered, feeling as if it took me hours to gather the loose strands of my answer together, "She made my father forget Míriel." It sounded almost petty when spoken aloud.

"You would have him always grieving?"

I blinked in surprise at her countering. It was true I wanted only for my father to be happy. . .would he have been happy if he had not married again?

"She gives him children that he loves dearly. He has promised me that I shall always be closest to his heart, and I trust him on that, but I do not know how far my trust should extend. He loves Findis and Ingoldo."

"What father does not love his children?"

I both admired and regretted Nerdanel's swift thinking. When I met her gaze, I saw no mockery or arrogance in her eyes, only concern and her ever-present eagerness to observe the thoughts and actions of others.

"But if she were--_dead_," I pressed on, almost choking on the bitter word, "and my mother lived in her place, it would be enough. Even if my father loved Míriel more than me, I would live happily knowing so."

Nerdanel said nothing for a while, brooding upon these words, neither implying their truth or falsity.

"I will not seek to sway you in this matter. But please, Finwion, think on happier things. I--I love you, and I do not want your worries to trouble you and me forever."

She took my hand, holding it tight with all the tenderness and passion in her frail being, then whispered in my ear, "If it is my father's forge you wish to see, come. I will not keep you from your purpose."

We walked through the cold woods to where the stairs led into the earth and descended together in almost reverent silence. The forge was half-lit as always, like an uncertain host waiting for a late guest.

"Do you work here often?" Nerdanel asked me, tracing a bare white foot through the black ash that had settled on the floor.

"Sometimes," I confessed, suddenly cautious again.

She seemed to sense my discomfort and lightly changed the subject. "Do you want to see the works I have made?"

I nodded, intrigued. Nerdanel led me to a corner of the dark forge that, because of the near-absence of nearby torches, was entwined with shadows that did not shudder or move. In the haste of my night visits, I had never stopped to inspect this part of the forge. Nerdanel fetched a torch from its sconce and brought it forth to illuminate her work.

At first, I could barely even comprehend what I saw. It seemed to me that a group of living people were clustered in the shadows of the room, watching us with bright, shining eyes that seemed to move and glow with a variety of emotions--amusement, sorrow, joy, anger, pride, laughter, jealousy--too numerous to count. Why did they not speak? What were they doing here? I opened my mouth to ask them all this, but Nerdanel stopped my words with a mere shake of her head, laughing quietly and without ridicule.

"They are only statues, Finwion," she murmured, seeming embarrassed by the compass of my awe.

Struck dumb by this revelation, I stepped closer to one, a replica of a young Elda. His hair gleamed in the flickering light, each lustrous filament suffused with a rich russet color. His skin was as fair and flawless as starlight, so startlingly lifelike that I could almost see the blood running in the veins beneath his flesh, surging with every beat of a motionless heart. The subliminally familiar musculature was at once strong and frail as glass, as befitted all Eldar I had ever seen. So faithful was he to every characteristic that befitted a person that I almost forgot myself again and began to greet him, barely stopping myself in time. Hand shaking slightly, I reached up to brush his face with astonished fingers.

Nerdanel was right. The man's--no, the _statue's--_face was as cold as a winter stream, but something in me still believed the illusion, despite all, and insisted I was touching something real and alive. I dropped my hand to the cuff of his sleeve and found that the fabric too was as hard as the stone from which it had been carved.

There were many other sculptures waiting in the shadows, likenesses of the Eldar, Valar, and Maiar alike. If I had been given the time, I would have taken hours to marvel over each of them, but such time I did not have. Instead, I turned to Nerdanel and exclaimed, "They are magnificent. Truly. I would ask you how you made such beautiful things, but I think it is a secret made more wonderful by being in your keeping alone."

"You flatter me," Nerdanel muttered, blushing and looking away, a faint smile upon her lips as she made herself busy with inspecting the stone cloth of a carved tunic.

We returned to the house not long after. I suppose we must have lost all track of time during breakfast, for it seemed only a moment later that Mahtan asked for our company to the forge that day.

When we both nodded, he gestured for us to follow and began walking again through the woods. Nerdanel and I followed at a more moderate pace, heads often bent low in hushed conversation.

Soon all of us were in the depths of the forge--which seemed much more crowded and busy now that I knew that an assemblage of silent stone watchers observed us from the corner. Mahtan stoked the fires and set to work almost at once. Nerdanel and I watched quietly, entranced by his deft speed.

He was hammering out a fine metal belt, intricately and painstakingly designed, which was dulling down to a faint, insolent red. As I watched, the voice returned to me and impelled me to bend my head, to see something I had not seen before.

_Look, Finwion. Look. A flaw in the belt, do not let your mind pass it by. . .see it! Open your eyes. _

Look.

I saw it at once. If Mahtan hammered at the imperfection long enough--I _knew_ this with a sudden thrill of concern--the metal would thin and the belt would be broken. It would take the whole day to strengthen the link, repair the design, and weld it again. I raised my eyes worriedly to Mahtan's face, and wondered if he saw it. Surely he did. He was a master of blacksmithing, even if he had been overlooked by Aulë, and far more experienced than I. But soon urgency ate at me like a disease, overriding all sense, and I could bear it no longer.

"That segment of the belt is weak, Mahtan. Even out the steel so that it does not break before it hardens."

Mahtan looked up at me, regarding me with an expression slightly dubious but trusting. Placing his tongs to one side, he lifted his hammer with both hands and brought it down with a great heave upon the section I had pointed out. There was a terrible shriek of metal, and sparks flew wildly in protest. I shielded my eyes with a hand--a single spark in the eye could blind anyone--and when I lowered it, I saw I had been right. The belt was jaggedly cloven in two, divided by the exact part I had pointed out.

"By the Powers, boy!" Mahtan exclaimed, clapping me good-heartedly on the back and looking down at the broken belt in awe, "You must have stolen your eyes from the great Eagles of Manwë Súlimo himself to see that! What secret talent do you possess, catching such a tiny flaw in those sharp eyes of yours?"

"But--but--could you not see it, Mahtan?" I stammered feebly in surprise, overwhelmed by Mahtan's strange reaction. He was acting as if I had saved him from the very jaws of death, and then leapt into the sky to walk among the stars. "I--I thought--"

"No, I did not even notice it. It takes a smith with years--no, _ages_ of training from Aulë himself to notice such things. Are you sure you have not been trained in smithcraft before this? You are so young. Did--no, your father is the King, he would not lower himself to working in the forge like a common smith. . ." Mahtan looked at me curiously, and I swallowed hard, mouth dry. Nerdanel had come over by now to see, and I felt my embarrassment increase a hundredfold. _A smith with ages of training from Aulë?_ I was only six and twenty, not even come of age.

"No, my father taught me nothing," I insisted quietly, even though Mahtan had already deduced that conclusion, "No. But I did come at night to work with your forge; Master Mahtan, I am so sorry I did not tell you sooner, and I offer what apology I can, and more. But yes, I worked here at night. I would leave my bed to use the forge. I feel like such a thief. . .how can you ever forgive me?"

"You are no thief, my prince," Mahtan reassured me, but I winced at the formal title--had I breached his trust?--and he saw the expression of resigned dread on my face. "Do not fear me, Finwion, I will not punish you. You are dear to my heart. I daresay I would allow you to get away with murder, child." He shook himself at such strange words, and I fought to keep my surprise down.

"Say on; I listen," Mahtan said at last, looking as if he himself were surprised at what was coming out of his mouth.

Shaking away my veil of astonishment, I realized I was truly caught now, if I had not been before. I trusted Mahtan, and he was dear to me as well, but there was no way at all I could tell him I had been guided by a voice only I could hear. Even in a land where the Valar walked freely among us, where their ethereal messengers came to visit upon my people, the most lowly of immortals, I could not imagine telling Mahtan and Nerdanel such a thing. And I would not. The wary, cautious part of me would not let me. The part that had been fed on years of Indis and her children, the part of me that trusted no one but myself, and told me to rely on no counsel but my own. It hissed to me dark, mistrustful words until even Mahtan and Nerdanel seemed untrustworthy of such incriminating information.

If I told them, just as well tell them I was insane, I agreed silently at last. What shame would come to my father then? I could almost hear the whispers spreading across the land, to the ears of the Valar themselves; words so oft said that they became truer than truth itself.

_The firstborn son of the King is mad; he is not fit to rule. . ._

_The prince Ingoldo shall be Finwë's heir, for his firstborn is certainly incapable of ruling in his state, hearing voices. . ._

Viciously riven by this thought, I still had no idea what to say. To lie would be to hurt Mahtan's reliance on me, and to break Nerdanel's heart, for she had told me often enough this past year that my lies hurt her. But to speak the truth. . .

It was strange; if I lied, I was certain of my fate, but if I told the truth, I did not know where the paths of fortune would lead me then.

"I am sorry," I muttered at last, making for the stairs leading to the earth above, leaving Nerdanel and Mahtan to wonder behind. It took all my self-control not to run outright. "I will tell you someday. . ."

Author's Note:

**RavenLady**, the error you pointed out in Chapter 7 has been dealt with accordingly. It must have slipped in during one of my famous '3 a.m. writing session' moments. Thank goodness that at least one of us has sharp eyes!

Sorry if this chapter is particularly lame. I find it a little awkward and in-betweenish, but that's just me. Let me know what you think.

Blodeuedd


	9. Chapter Nine: Aulë

_Chapter Nine: Aulë_

When I came at last to the top of the stairwell, heart drumming in my ears, I looked about at the suddenly unfamiliar trees, lost.

I could not go back to Mahtan's house yet, for Falassë would wonder why I alone had returned so early. There was nowhere else to go. Not Tirion.

What I needed was a place to be alone, to gather my thoughts together and still the quivering fear that had leapt to my throat sometime in the past few minutes. Confident that I would remember the path that led to where Nerdanel's family dwelt when the time came, I set off on my own into the forest.

I walked at my own pace, my emotions slowly settling like stirred-up earth returning to the bottom of a pool. I bent all my thought on the sound of my boots upon the green earth and the calming sights and sounds about me.

Spring was melding into summer with a swiftness only the Eldar could see. The flowers that grew abundantly in the undergrowth had all blossomed to their full. Some were a pure, snowy white; others were the rosy color of the sky before Laurelin's light came to its full golden wealth. Above the shrubs and ferns rose the trees, their limber boughs green with many leaves and trailing ghostly mosses. All about me was the loud silence of life, empty yet full, a raw noise soaring to the sky.

There was no path here. I was free to wander where I would, to wherever my mind decided for me to go.

For a while I was my own self, unhampered by thoughts of Indis, Finwë, Ingoldo--even of Nerdanel. I was alone, forgetting all, enjoying all with an innocent bliss I had once thought lost. Though they were neither dingy forge nor fair seashore, the woods that lent me sweet solace on that day.

After a while, I found myself looking not at the virgin ground before my feet but up at the great expanse of the heavens, the light warm and yellow and soft upon my face. I smiled and laughed aloud, breathing deep the sweet air, so empty of voices and worries and besetments.

Yes, I knew when I left this lonely walk, I would be again harried by the rush and clamor of my fate, but for now. . .for now I was released, controlled by nothing.

When at last my feet could carry me no longer, I sat at the foot of a great tree, its branches rich and bountiful with leaves, and thought upon many things while I gazed up into its green, light-pirced canopy. Strangely, I was nearly numb to the emotion and turmoil that my mind's workings usually roused.

I _knew_ I should have felt anger when I thought of this and sorrow when I thought of that, but my mind seemed slowed, running at the same steady pace of the woods' growth. It was as if I was recalling the life of someone else from a distance. I could think of Ingoldo without tensing with anger. I could think of my father without brimming with love. I remembered my short life without passion or remorse, thinking with delicious leisure upon every instant.

As the hours grew later, my mind came at last to the memories of the guiding voice and working at the forge. It was then that my emotions returned in a flood. A virulent rage seized control of my head, born of confusion and worry.

_Who are you? _I asked no one, _Show yourself to me! For once, advise me on something other than forgework. What should I say to Nerdanel and her family? You have made them think me mad and strange. Why do you--_

_Do not fear your return_, soothed the voice, as calm and sober as ever, relaxing me even in my hour of anger. _They will understand and condone you when you reveal who I am._

"Who are you then?" I demanded, forgetting to answer with my mind, my bodily voice aching with fury and irritation. I would not play this game any longer. Seeing as I was skilled in reading the moods of others, while mine remained closed to them, it was not often I was so unsettled by the mind of another being.  
_Who am I?_ The voice seemed to laugh, both affectionate and amused, the sound echoing silently in my head. _Well, you have confronted and overcome me. Dear child, I am Aulë._

Aulë?

I jumped to my feet in shock, mind racing, suddenly short of breath. It was not as if I had not heard of the Vala before; my father was often visited by their unearthly envoys and heralds, and he often spoke of them to me. I had known that sometime in my life I would most likely meet or speak with a Vala or Maia, it was something I expected here in the land of the Valar, but--_now?_

I thought fleetingly, with wonder and pride, of the notion that the Vala was speaking to _me_, but then I realized--all along, every night I had gone to the forge, every whisper that had guided my hammer and tongs, it had been Aulë. He had guided my hand and mind, had helped me perfect my skills. I felt so foolish! Why had I not seen it sooner?

_Peace, Prince Finwion. I see you are young after all for all the subtlety and wisdom of your mind,_ the voice--_Aulë's _voice--whispered to me, sweet as the wind that whispered through the leaves above.

"But Mahtan said--you have not taken an apprentice in many years. He said you waited."

_I was waiting for you._

"Me?" I did not feel pride, only lingering surprise. "But I am only. . ."

_You are Finwion, firstborn son of King Finwë of the Noldor, beloved of the Valar. Who better to teach? _

When I heard _beloved of the Valar_, I felt guilt and a faint feeling of rebellion shadow my surprise as I remembered my thoughts on the Trees, and what I had said to Indis, the words that were most likely not even dreamed of in the Undying Lands until they left my lips.

Part of me wanted to cringe, to beg forgiveness, but another part remained tall and arrogant, demanding why I should bow before the gods. Was I not immortal as well? If I were to bow before them, they would no longer be my guardians, but my jailers.

If Aulë heard my thoughts, he said nothing of them.

"But what can _I_ do?" I asked into the growing silence, still confused despite my rebelliousness. I tried to brush away my defiant thoughts into the shadows of forgetful memory.

_Magnificent things. You shall be named Curufinwë, Skilled One of Dark Hair_. _I see much of your fate; not all, but much, and I should like greatly to teach you. Mahtan is a skillful smith indeed, and if you would be taught by him, I would let it be so, but I can give you knowledge of smithcraft no Elda before you has known. I can guide you, Finwion, but not without your consent. _

Despite my mistrust of the Valar, the words of Aulë interested me. Had I not always desired knowledge? And to know secrets of metalwork that been confined to only Aulë's mind for so long. . .I was sore tempted, and gave in quickly.

"Teach me then, Lord Aulë, and I shall be your apprentice."

_I thank you. We shall not speak for a while, though. Do not wait overmuch; for much has to come to pass before I visit upon you again._

"Will I lose my skills? Do I not need a teacher?" My words rushed now. He could leave at any minute, fickle as the teasing breeze. . .

_A teacher?_ Aulë laughed again, softer this time. _No. Not at all. You have enough lore and understanding of the crafts of metal to be a teacher yourself, despite your young age. You will never fully lose your ability, not once in your life. So rest at ease, and do not fear. Farewell, son of Finwë._

There was a sudden emptiness, a silence in my head, as there had always been after a night at the forge, when I had returned wearily to my bed.

But instead of throbbing with a longing for sleep, my mind was wide awake, working furiously. Aulë had spoken to me. He had told me he wanted to teach me. I still did not understand why, why I was so exceptional among the Eldar, but I impatiently tossed the thought aside, seeking questions I could easily answer. What else had Aulë said?

That I was wise enough to teach metalcraft. After barely a sixmonth's worth of nights at the forge? It must take years to learn everything, years upon years, and ages upon ages. But if what Aulë told me was true. . .

"Stop thinking about it," I firmly told myself aloud, then looked around, a little unsteady on my feet. The light of Laurelin was nearly spent, and fog from the nearby sea was creeping into the mountains. Had so much time passed during my conversation with Aulë? To me, it had seemed only a few minutes. As I gathered my scattered wits, I began following the path I had made home, hoping the fog would not encroach upon me too soon before night fell.

When I finally came to the clearing where Mahtan's house stood, it was as black as pitch out, with mist gathered at the feet of the trees, as if seeking shelter under the boughs. The windows of the dwelling were lit, and I hastened to the door.

Nerdanel all but flew at me the instant I entered.

"We had thought you lost," she murmured, voice muffled as she buried her face in my tunic.

Mahtan stood from his seat by the fire and laughed aloud, face bright with mirth, then turned to me as Nerdanel hastily detached herself, blushing.

"So where did you go?" He asked.

"I know now who taught me," I said, feeling the truth sweet and feather-light upon my tongue, "Aulë spoke to me, and revealed himself to me as the voice that guided me through my metalwork. Please, believe me. I know it must sound strange. . ."

Mahtan's eyes widened. "You are joking," he murmured, almost emotionless with shock. I shook my head earnestly, and he smiled admiringly.

"I knew there was something of a smith in you. And if Aulë himself has taken an interest in your skill. . .I have nothing more to say than that I am proud. Envious, perhaps," he laughed, ruffling my hair affectionately, "But proud that I have met a smith blessed enough to have Aulë for a master. Best of luck to you, my boy."

I flushed, shifting my feet, but Nerdanel gave me a glowing smile that spoke of her pride as well.

"But now I must return home," I said suddenly, raising my eyes when I could once more, "For my father would also most likely want to learn of this. You have been gracious hosts, and I thank all of you, but tomorrow I should like to go with the changing of the lights."

"It has been a pleasure to house you, Prince," Falassë replied, eyes shining with sincerity as she bowed her head in impressed reverence. Nerdanel, from her place at her mother's side, looked up at me and nodded, eyes shining with a light entirely different--brighter, clearer, and touched by love--from Falassë's.

I woke early the next morning, and left only a short while later. Before I left, I said my farewells to Nerdanel and her family, who had all woken early to see my departure. I came to Nerdanel last, and as we embraced, I whispered in her ear, "It is your turn now, beloved. Come to Tirion with autumn."

Not looking at her face, lest I reveal to her parents some emotion best left hidden, I mounted my horse and set off through the woods, north for Tirion, leaving Mahtan, his house, and his family behind.

Author's Note:

Thanks to all whose kind words made Chapter 8 seem like a worthy installment. I love you guys.

Because this chapter is so short, I promise to have the tenth posted sometime during this upcoming weekend to compensate. Stay tuned!

Much love,

Blodeuedd


	10. Chapter Ten: Return

_Chapter Ten: Return_

The nearer I came to Tirion, the more my worries began to return. I remembered Findis' summons from my father for me to come speak with him, and my whole being returned to the clenched knot of fear that it had been the day I had left for Nerdanel's house in the woods. By the time I came within sight of the silver towers that rose above the plains and the Calacirya, my hands were trembling upon the reins, try as I might to stop them.

Through my growing anxiety, I could see why Nerdanel had looked on Tirion with such wonder. Compared to her humble dwelling, the city was a sprawling mass of elegance and enduring beauty, almost extravagant in its splendor. There were no simple wood huts to be found here--all was flawlessly white, glowing blindingly in the sun. Memories of rude but lovingly crafted structures contrasted with cold stone and neatly organized buildings. The family I had left behind in the Pelóri was overlaid by thoughts of the family from which I hid.

It took me some time to acknowledge this bright place as home, but at last I did so, and rode onward.

There were no guards on the walls of the city, for we had little to fear in the Undying Lands. The gates always stood open, welcoming any and all visitors who came. I slowed my horse to a trot, raising a hand to my eyes as the dazzling whiteness of Tirion swept over me. As my sight adjusted, I continued on, increasingly fearful of what harsh reprimands would await me here.

When I reached my father's house at the foot of Mindon Eldaliéva, the Tower of Ingwë, I dismounted and whispered a command to my horse to go to the stable, where a groom would tend to him, then walked to the gate of the dooryard that led to the house. There I stopped, and stood still, watching the home that had once belonged to my father and me alone, the home which had belonged to my father and Míriel before that.

Ingoldo was darting about the front yard, shouting and laughing as he flitted about like a wayward beam of light from Laurelin, falling to the earth in his haste, only to rise up again and run once more. He caught side of a bird in one of the sapling trees that Indis had planted last summer and pointed excitedly at it.

"Findis! Look! Look! Bird!" He cried with delight, running to the foot of the young tree to gaze up at the twittering animal with wonder. The bird looked down at him curiously, cocking its head at an angle. This comical pose set the little boy to laughing, and the bird took flight at the sudden sound, soaring away until it was a black dot among Tirion's towers.

Findis stood watching Ingoldo's happiness from the doorframe, hair loose and dark about her shoulders. Her blue eyes were gentle and tender in her pale, lovely face as she looked upon her younger brother. Both she and Ingoldo were still as youthful as the day I had left.

Suddenly, Findis' brow furrowed, as if she realized she was being watched, and she looked up and saw me. For a moment, while she still did not recognize me, her eyes were bright and hopeful, reflecting the light of Laurelin, but when she at last recognized me, they were clouded with something I could not recognize at once, but soon found a name for. Pity. It left a bitter taste in my mouth, and I steeled myself, as if the girl advancing across the yard was the vilest foe on the earth, as if to prove I was strong and not to be pitied.

"Finwion?" She asked, though she had known it was I since her eyes had fallen on my face. Findis' voice was respectful, but not affectionate, like that of a lady welcoming an uninvited stranger into her home, but I did not care. Ingoldo looked up from his sport and hastened to her side, clinging to the silken skirts of his sister's plain blue gown and looking up at me with wide, intelligent eyes that matched the fabric's sapphire hue.

"Yes, I return," I remarked emotionlessly, not wanting to exchange idle words.

"Our father still wishes to speak to you, brother." The title was polite, and true--I was, after all, her half-brother, but I flinched from it anyhow.

"Then bid him to come here, so that we may speak," I directed, voice calmer as I bit back a harsh rebuke. Findis either did not notice the arrogance of the words or shrugged it off, for she did as she was told and silently left into the house. Ingoldo was left to look up at me, half with admiration, half with apprehension.

"Who are you?" He asked shyly, digging one bare foot in the loose earth.

"A son of Finwë," I replied, not looking at him, looking at the sky into which the bird had disappeared.

"Are we brothers?"

"No." My answer was quick and vehement. Ingoldo mulled over this sharp reply and digged his short toes deeper into the ground.

"Why did you go away?"

"Ingoldo, little one, come away from our visitor. You trouble him."

I looked up just as quickly as Ingoldo, but the speaker was Indis, not Finwë. She seemed to glide soundlessly across the courtyard, face fair yet emotionless, until she came to a halt at Ingoldo's side, and silently took her son's hand in her own pale one.

"Where is Findis?" She asked Ingoldo, face still placid and calm.

"She went for Father. He--" Ingoldo pointed at me cautiously, "--wants to talk to him."

"I see," Indis said, raising her eyes to my own. I stiffened and returned her steady, dispassionate gaze as best I could. Ingoldo watched us quietly.

"I trust you enjoyed your journey?" Indis asked at last, seeking to make polite conversation.

I nodded, not wanting to speak to her lest my sharp tongue get the better of me again, and have my shame increased twofold.

Findis appeared again in the doorway, and beckoned for me to follow her as she disappeared again into the shadow of the house. I opened the gate, awkwardly sidestepping Indis and Ingoldo, and walked into the yawning entryway, looming before me like hungry jaws.

As my eyes grew accustomed to the candlelight and shafts of golden light from Laurelin that comprised all the light in the house, Findis became distinguished from the darkness, watching me with a strange wariness.

"Follow me," she instructed, then began walking hastily ahead of me down the corridor.

I spoke no word, but followed her, and we walked in silence. The house, with so many of its dwellers outside, seemed empty, and it would have also seemed cold if I had not remembered it so well from childhood. We passed through both candlelit corridors and colonnaded halls, the quiet sound of our feet the only disturbance of the house's dangerous hush. But as long as the walk took, we arrived all too soon at the door of my father's councilroom.

When we arrived, Findis opened the door for me, face mildly curious even though it was clear that she did not want to interfere with the business between my father and myself. Not wanting to show my childish dread before the daughter of Indis, I held my head high and walked into the room with a stride that belied the quaking unease that shook me within.

It had been a long time since my father had asked to speak to me for disciplinary reasons. Childhood memories of being gently chided for taking one too many slices of bread at dinner or teasing the son of a nobleman to tears arose readily to my head. Because of the chastisements' infrequency, I had almost forgotten the tension that took me now, as it always had when I awaited my punishment. Though the thought often lay stagnant in my mind, my father was King of the Noldor in Aman, and, when he wished it, he was wreathed with an aura of command and nobility that few could disregard.

Now, he sat alone in his councilroom, the banner of our house hanging behind him on the wall, surrounded by empty chairs, which were so often filled with envoys from the Elves, Maiar, or the Valar themselves. His dark eyes were somber and reflective, his face pale and noble, and he sat in his simple wood chair, though it was no different from the others in the room, as if it were the greatest of thrones. I dared not delve into the thoughts of Finwë now. While I alone of all my kin had the ability to see the minds and intents of others, there were times when apprehension and fearful reason clouded my skills and I left them unused.

I stood before my father, waiting for the command to sit. After regarding me silently with eyes that betrayed no emotion, he gestured to one of the chairs, and I settled myself in it, though I was unable to relax.

"Finwion," Finwë began, making even the name he had said so many times in laughter and love sound cold and empty of feeling, "Before you left, over a sixmonth ago, my wife Indis came to me and told me of words you exchanged passing in a hall. She said that you wished her death. Is this true?"

Dumbly, I nodded. I worried that if I spoke, my voice would tremble and disclose my weakness.

"I have been alive since the birth of the Eldar, and never have I heard in person or in record of an Elda wishing another to death," Finwë said, almost emotionlessly, though there was a tone of sad disappointment in his voice that I could not overlook. "Such things are considered the most heinous of epithets. If I loved you any less, Finwion, I would discipline you, to a point of severity even I fear, for even thinking of saying those words. And to say them to one dear to my heart adds to the matter. You are the heir to the kingship of the Noldorin people in Eldamar, and, if I could only make myself do so, I would keep you from attaining the throne as punishment."

His eyes were grim as he said this, and I felt myself visibly cringe with terror and shame, wishing only for his pacification.

Finwë saw my emotion and sighed quietly. "But all I can ask of you is to swear that, on whatever oath you deem fitting to keep you from ever acting so again, you shall never wish another person death again, and that you will not, despite all jealousy and hate you may bear them, say such things to your own kin."

_They are _not_ my kin_, my mind protested even in this dire moment, wanting desperately for my father to understand the turmoil that went on in my head.

But I knew I could not trouble him with my paltry resentments. He was my father, and I would sooner contradict the Valar themselves if it meant I would not have to gainsay Finwë. All I said aloud was, "I do so swear, my King."

I almost bit off my tongue and swallowed it in shock when I heard the title _my King_ slip out of my mouth. But such was the respect my father wittingly or unwittingly commanded.

"Then it is done. And now, my son--" I was comforted to hear the emotion slip back into my father's voice when he said this, "--I thank you for putting aside such slight things to promise me this. I fear I love you the more for it." He smiled gently, and I relaxed even more, glad to be freed from his detached coldness, slackening my taut dread enough to return the smile. The silence warmed between us, easing my heart.

"Where did you go for so long?" Finwë asked at last.

"Near the Bay of Eldamar, but nearer so to the Pelóri Mountains," I replied truthfully.

"The Sea has my son," he said thoughtfully, rising from his chair with amusement in his voice.

_Not quite_, I thought with wry delight as I rose to follow him, smiling at my secret.

As we walked through the corridors of the house, alone for once, I decided now I could tell him of the thought that had been nagging at me since I had been able to think of anything other than the conversation with Finwë.

"Father?"

"Yes, Finwion?"

"While I was--in the mountains, Aulë spoke to me."

"Truly? What of?" Finwë was genuinely interested, I could tell.

"He wants to take me as an apprentice, Father. In smithcraft."

My father halted, and turned to face me, face slack with shock. I would have smiled if not for the somberness of the surprise.

"But what I do not understand," I pressed on, "Is what I must ask you. Why did Aulë choose me? I am--" _Falsehearted. Dishonest. Resentful. _A thousand words sprang to my lips, but I said none of them; they were my troubles, not my father's, and I would not make them his for as long as I lived. Or so I would think, for some time.

"I see in you many things, my son, all of them good," Finwë said at last, voice thoughtful, "And to me it is only a small wonder that you have been chosen. However, I cannot say that blacksmithing is in your blood, for it is not. Nor was I aware that Aulë would ever look to my son to take as an apprentice, though now it brings both you and me great honor. I suppose the Valar see even deeper within us than we ourselves do, and they see things we do not.

"When I was among the first of my people in Cuiviénen, I never even dreamed of being a king. But when I came to them, they found something in me I myself had not found, and they saw it fit for me to be the King of the Noldor. I was afraid at first, but now being king is merely my way of life, not a burden or a source of fright. The Valar sought for my skill and found it, when even I knew nothing of it. So may it be with Aulë and you."

Reassured--but not entirely--by my father's faith in me, I replied, "But Aulë said he will not return to me for some time. Not for many years."

"It is still a gift, Finwion, a gift beyond the ken of many of our people. The thought of Aulë speaking to you alone brings me pride. You bring honor to our family. When he speaks to you again, my son, you need only ask, and I will see you provided with all you need for your apprenticeship. I promise it."

The house of Finwë and Indis became home once more.


	11. Chapter Eleven: Autumn

_Chapter Eleven: Autumn_

The summer of that year passed swifter than most, but not without the strange grief that seemed to always trail my presence.

Since our conversation in his councilroom, Finwë regarded me with the same, unwavering love, and we spoke more frequently than we had in months, often inadvertently detaining each other for hours at a time as we did so.

But whenever I was in the same room as my father's wife for too long, Indis' silent hurt, veiled as it was with calm discretion, would begin to tug at me. Envy, hate, and pity would mix inside my heart, until I felt ready to burst with confused emotion. So I avoided her when I could, as I had before. I suppose to some it must have seemed I had not changed my ways at all since my return from the Pelóri.

But nothing, not even Indis' presence, could dim my excitement at the coming of autumn, for I knew someday soon Nerdanel would come again to Tirion, bringing gentle reason and quiet comfort. It was a happiness I bore even in the darkest hours of hurt and hate, and drew upon whenever I needed it most.

At last, the day came. A steward approached me, bearing the message that one Nerdanel, daughter of Mahtan, awaited me in the dooryard.

Hastening to the door so swiftly that I almost forgot to thank the poor steward, I opened the door and looked about. The day was clear and cold--even the light of Laurelin seemed to have a dull cast to it--and the wind sang of autumn, but in my rising joy I could only feel the brightness of summer in the air.

Nerdanel stood at the gate, as I had earlier in the year, a small-boned, delicate palfrey at her side, the hood of her dark, woolen cloak thrown back as she looked at Finwë's house in wonder. Her soft gray eyes fell on me, and she smiled.

"I found your house in almost no time at all," she said to me as I crossed the dooryard to where she stood, "But the man I spoke to seemed to think me mad, asking where to find the house of the King of the Noldor!"

I opened the gate for her, mind and heart lightening at the very sight of her. The steward took her horse and led him to the stables as Nerdanel walked into the dooryard. She looked about her once more in curious wonder, and then we embraced.

"I am so happy to see you," Nerdanel murmured quietly, resting her cheek lightly against mine and tightening her arms about me as if she would never let go, "The journey was hard for me, as I had never traveled it alone before, but now all that fades."

I smiled, giving her hand a quick squeeze of reassurance, and was about to reply when I heard my father's voice ask, "Who is it that comes, Finwion?"

Stiffening, I stepped away from her, feeling my face flush in embarrassment. I did not have to look at Nerdanel to feel her awkwardness as well.

My father stood in the doorframe, face nonchalant though his eyes shone with stifled amusement, dimmed by something that touched too close to sadness for my comfort.

"King Finwë," Nerdanel said in surprise, and then swept into a graceful, if hasty, curtsy. "I am Nerdanel, daughter of the smith Mahtan, who dwells near the Sea."

"The Sea. . ." Finwë echoed in a light voice, glancing at me with more strangely poignant delight, but quickly returned Nerdanel's courtesy with a bow. "You are a friend of my son, and welcome in my house and in Tirion. Come inside. Finwion and I shall acquaint you with the rest of our kin."

Our discomfiture only beginning to fade, Nerdanel and I followed my father into the house, careful now to keep our distance from each other in his presence. At last, we found Indis and her children in Ingoldo's room. Indis was reading from a book of verse, with Ingoldo curled, kitten-like, in her lap and Findis upon the floor at her feet.

Although he was barely five years of age, Ingoldo was looking at the open book intently as Indis read, little brow furrowed as he tried to read it for himself. Findis listened attentively from her place on the floor, dark hair spilling loose and shining across her shoulders as she looked up at her mother and younger brother with a love and affection she never looked with upon me. All of them were utterly at ease with one another; the scene was intimate, endearing, and agonizingly perfect. My heart flinched as I realized that I could easily imagine Finwë joining this portrait and melding into it seamlessly, while I myself seemed to wander alone on the shores of the Sea, in a place between light and dark.

When I glanced over at Nerdanel, I could see she was delighted to see the rare glimpse of the noble kindred of Finwë someplace other than the throne and in story. I almost wished I could make her look away.

As we came to the doorway, Indis glanced up, closed the book, and swept Ingoldo gently into her arms. Findis stood, young enough to stay close to her mother's side, yet far enough from girlhood not to cling to Indis' skirts and peer at the caller.

"My family, this is Nerdanel, daughter of Mahtan," Finwë said. Nerdanel fairly glowed with pleasure as she curtsied to the three. Despite all the hours when I had filled her ears with baleful talk of my half-kin, her eyes were bright with a wondering curiosity.

"Nerdanel," I began hoarsely, when my father gave me a look that told me to proceed from where he had left off, "This is my father's wife, the Lady Indis, kinswoman of Ingwë."

Nerdanel glanced at me briefly, but swept away all awkwardness of that situation with a charming smile. Indis smiled at her as well, a smile that was genuinely kind and welcoming, and, feeling my hackles raise, I hurriedly carried on with the introduction.

"This is my half-sister, the Princess Findis."

Findis cautiously returned Nerdanel's smile, but said nothing.

"And this is my half-brother, the Prince Ingoldo." Nerdanel curtsied again and Ingoldo smiled happily at her, one set of tiny fingers wriggling in a shy salutation.

"Will you be staying with us, friend Nerdanel?" Indis asked, stepping closer. I fought back a grimace at the gracious title and how well Nerdanel received it.

"If it causes you no displeasure or trouble, my Queen," Nerdanel replied, gracious to a fault.

"We would only be happy to receive you into our house," Indis replied kindly, as my father nodded assent, "You may remain as long as you would like, and we shall treat as one of our own blood."

So it was that Nerdanel came to stay for a while in the house of Finwë.

Nerdanel, polite and friendly as she was, was quickly welcomed into our home indeed.

Ingoldo quickly grew to adore her, and trailed in her footsteps like an unusually bright second shadow. He would have accompanied her everywhere if not for Indis' restraining hand.

Even so, Nerdanel would often object to Ingoldo's removal, taking my younger brother upon her lap, to sing him songs and tell him stories, until he laughed with delight and begged for more. Next to his mother, Nerdanel was most likely Ingoldo's favorite person in the world.

Finwë and Indis were both taken with her kindness and animation. Time also revealed that Nerdanel had a friendly wit, which brought laughter to us all. Even Findis slowly accepted the older girl's presence in our house, and the two would venture together into the bustling markets of Tirion many an afternoon, bringing back food for dinner, the odd trinket, and gifts for Ingoldo. Nerdanel brought a new life and beauty into our house, nearly uniting the divided family within it with the lovely strength of her radiance.

Indeed, she was so civil and courteous to any and all in Finwë's house that I thought it an act.

"What do you think of them, really?" I asked Nerdanel one night, a few months after she had arrived. She looked down at Ingoldo, who had clambered into her lap over an hour ago and since fallen asleep, then back up at me.

"No more or less than what I reveal to them," she replied simply, face sincere and honest in the light of Telperion shining through a nearby window.

"So--even to Indis?"

She nodded. "Your thoughts of her do not go unnoticed, but, to me, she is my Queen, and I cannot deny her the respect and love she is owed. You are her son by marriage, and are able to speak your mind when you would, but I do not have such links."

"You would tell her you disliked her if you were related to her, but you are not. So you feign adoration?" I had caught her. Or so I thought.

Nerdanel smiled, eyes bright with amusement, and then laughed, stifling the sound midway so as not to wake the fair-haired child on her knee. "I never said I feigned my adoration, did I?"

"True," I admitted grudgingly.

She saw the hidden displeasure in me and took up my hand in hers, brushing it to her lips in a quiet tenderness. "No matter what love I hold for your family, it shall ever be you first, Finwion. I promise."

I opened my mouth to speak, but thought better of it and said nothing at all.

Author's Note:

Enormous thanks to **RavenLady**, **Unsung Heroine**, and **Anglachel** for their kind reviews! Kudos to **anonymous** for your careful editing! The error has been fixed. I cannot help but wonder: what am I doing to miss so many glaring errors regarding the as-yet unborn sun and moon! I suppose it is all part of being a long-suffering Silmfic author... :-)

Thank goodness we have so many nice people here who are willing to read, review, and make my day!

Love,

Blodeuedd


	12. Chapter Twelve: The Journey

_Chapter Twelve: The Journey_

Nerdanel stayed with us long into the winter, her company a warmth in the season's gentle chill. It was not until one night in early spring that she made clear of her desire to return homeward. She and I were speaking together in the dooryard, seated in the whispering grass, watching the stars struggling appear through the light of Telperion,

"I mean you no offense," she insisted shyly after telling me her wish, fingering some of the blades of grass that rustled about where she sat, "Your father and his wife have been gracious and kind--and Ingoldo perhaps the dearest little thing I have ever met, but. . ."

"There is no offense taken," I promised her, giving her a reassuring smile. "Where will you go? Home?"

"I shall not return directly home," Nerdanel said pensively, eyes lightless in the dark as she lightly combed her fingers through the lawn, "Perhaps I shall go to the Bay of Eldamar, and then make my way homeward from there."

When she mentioned the Bay, my heart tugged at my mind, urging me to go with her. I had not seen the Sea for so long, and now my old yearning rose again.

"Would it be no trouble if I came with you?" I asked, embarrassed I had caved in to such a self-indulgent wish. Nerdanel smiled, turning to me, her eyes tender as she touched a hand briefly but lovingly to my face. I was so filled with love that I almost could not meet her gaze.

"No, Finwion. Of course not. Come with me. I would be honored."

So when Nerdanel deemed a day fitting, we both said our farewells to my family and left Tirion.

I had never traveled with any companion other than my father before, and at first feared that Nerdanel's vigor would be less than that to which I had been accustomed.

But soon I learned that her resilience was equal to my own. She was an able rider, and did not weary easily. We would talk for endless hours as we rode, but some of the time was spent in silence, as I brooded over something that was becoming a more and more frequent thought to me.

We arrived at the Bay of Eldamar at noon one day. The skies were clear and the light of Laurelin gleamed upon the Sea as upon the facets of a clear blue gem. For a moment, we only gazed out from the white cliffs upon the Sea, with its necklace of misty islands ringing its horizon and the gulls dipping like white flashes of silk over its surface. The brackish wind was chill but lonely, seeking comfort in the folds of our cloaks and in the flagging manes and tails of our horses.

Without a word, Nerdanel slowly spurred her horse down the rocky cliffs, and I followed behind, the sounds of the ocean pounding in my ears as the waves crashed upon the rocks and hissed across the sands. When we reached the dunes, I dismounted, and my horse snorted with happiness as he recognized the sweet, tender tufts of grass that grew among the sandbanks. Above us, the clouds scudded across the sky.

"I had almost forgotten what the Sea looked like," Nerdanel remarked, ascending to the peak of one round, tawny dune and gazing out upon the water, "After you left, I never returned here."

"Why?" I asked, settling myself on a rock and watching her from the corner of my eye.

"I cannot say. Perhaps it would be tiresome without you." I did not have to look at Nerdanel's face to know she wore a bittersweet smile.

"Tiresome?" I laughed. "The Bay of Eldamar could never be tiresome for me." _Because here I found you_, my heart added. Though Nerdanel outwardly showed no notice, something told me she had heard the silent addition.

After a moment, she turned to me, and held out a pale hand to me. "Come. Let us walk along the beach like we once did." I smiled, and slowly stood to my feet.

As the remainder of the day passed, and as we walked the shores and talked, a strange but not unpleasant need was beginning to become more and more apparent in me.

At first, I held it off, not understanding what it was. But as the time passed, and Nerdanel seemed to grow more beautiful with each fleeting moment, I slowly began to comprehend what it was I needed. My mind dwelt more and more upon the thought, until it was as worn as old coins.

"Why so silent, Finwion?"

Nerdanel's voice startled me, and I turned about. My heart leapt to my throat, and for a moment I could not speak. Nerdanel watched me innocently, face white and almost cold.

In that moment, even though it was awkward, even though it was impulsive, I silently called on the Valar for aid, licked my dry lips, and made ready to ask what had been on my mind all evening.

"Nerdanel," I began, gazing deep into her eyes. I felt as weak as a newborn child, a shell of a being driven on only by the frighteningly powerful love I bore for her. "Will you marry me?"

For a moment, there was only silence as she stared almost blankly at me, overwhelmed by the profundity of this revolutionary notion. Her brow furrowed, and she looked almost angry.

When my mind was fairly ready to burst with anxiety and awkwardness, she looked up at me, dark eyes luminous with trust and love, and drew a shallow, quiet breath, as if the world rested upon her shoulders.

"Yes."

If I had not locked my knees so tightly where I stood, I am sure I would have fallen over with relief and surprise. Tears sprang to my eyes, and through the smarting pain I could see the tears in her eyes as well. For once in my life, I truly cared nothing at all for myself, only for Nerdanel.

"Do not weep," I murmured awkwardly, brushing the clear silver drops away from her face with trembling fingers, gratefully kissing her brow with dry lips.

"It is only for the sorrow that is found in complete happiness that I shed my tears, Finwion," Nerdanel assured me quietly.

Then there was stillness for a time, as the waves whispered over the beach and the gulls cried as they flew in the deeps of the night. We stood fast together, her head laid over my heart, our hands clasped between us, no voices needed to communicate our bliss.

When words returned to me at last, I said reluctantly, "We are so young. . ."

Nerdanel looked up at me abruptly, and I saw my worry reflected anew in her eyes. "Would your father approve? I am a commoner, not some highborn noblewoman. I am no one. The daughter of a smith. You are a prince, destined to be King of the Noldor. Surely you are meant for better than me."

"Do not say that!" I cried, angry yet miserable that she would think so little of herself, "Your lineage matters little to me, or to anyone else! I love you, and--and I want to marry you. That is all that matters. Please, Nerdanel."

"Promise me that if your father is less than approving of me, we shall not wed, even if it breaks our hearts," Nerdanel said fiercely, though her voice a bare, meek whisper.

"I promise," I consented regretfully, "Though to me you are nobler than all queens, fairer than all flowers, and a heart kinder than any beats in your breast. The greatest King of Eldar ever born would still be unworthy of you. I would beg on my knees for your hand, if you ask it of me. I will die for you."

Nerdanel bent her head humbly at the weight of this pledge, coppery strands of her hair falling across her eyes, and I stroked them from her face, hand lingering upon her white cheek even when the soft tendrils were gone. At last, she looked up at me once more, eyes still hopeful.

"Very well then, Finwion. If you wish to hazard so much upon the will of your father, it shall be so, for your will is mine. Our fate is yet uncertain."

Her voice grew sober at this, but her eyes brightened again as she looked upon me. "Shall we go first to my parents, and bid them come to Tirion to meet with yours, so our betrothal can be known to both houses?"

"Your will is mine," I echoed in response, dropping my hand and smiling fondly down at her.

"And rings?" She asked in a lighter tone, dancing away from my side to stand at the water's edge, smiling.

"I can make rings," I promised.

Her smile was all the gratitude I needed.

Author's Note:

Hurrah! They're getting married!

I apologize for the brevity of this chapter, but there really wasn't anything more to say on the subject. Besides, Nerdanel and Fëanor were both getting a little difficult to work with, seeing as they much prefer each other's company to my persistent poking and prodding. (Who wouldn't?) So please understand.

As usual, your constant reviews and support have been much appreciated. If I can return the favor to registered members by reviewing one of your more recent works, please let me know! It would be my pleasure to give you that extra bit of publicity.

Finals at my school are coming up, so I will warn you now that updates will be few and far between in the coming weeks. Please do not be miffed with me. The only new chapter I can guarantee is Chapter 13, which will be posted sometime in early June. Otherwise, all is a mystery. . .

Love always,

Blodeuedd


	13. Chapter Thirteen: The Smith and the King

_Chapter Thirteen: The Smith and the King_

So it was that, after only little more than a week at the Bay of Eldamar, Nerdanel and I rode the short distance to her home in the Pelóri Mountains. The woods that covered the mountains seemed the same as they had been when I had left it so long ago, and the feeling of peace and sanctuary was the same as well.

We at last returned to the small home hidden in the trees, and Mahtan and Falassë welcomed us once more into their home, though only briefly, for we told them that some matters--though we refused to explain yet what those matters were--needed their presence in Tirion. However, we did not have to lie to or deceive Nerdanel's parents further, as she had feared we would; they came readily with us, riding upon their own horses to Tirion.

Before we left, I made one last midnight journey to Mahtan's forge and made the two rings Nerdanel had asked for. It was the first undertaking I had made without Aulë's guidance, and my heart was tight with fear for every passing second of the task. But when I drew the cooling rings from the fires and saw how the light slid in artful runnels down their white-silver sides, I knew I had done well.

We left the next morning, leaving the cottage empty of people behind us. One night, when we had made camp in the Calacirya, only a day's ride from Tirion, Mahtan turned to me and asked wisely, "These matters in Tirion, friend Finwion, have they something to do with my daughter?"

I looked up, surprised to hear him speak. Falassë and Nerdanel had already gone to sleep, and only Mahtan and I remained awake, tending to the cookfire and gazing into the night.

"I--well, yes, I suppose," I agreed, wondering how much I could say without divulging the surprise of my betrothal.

"Why so mysterious, Finwion?" Mahtan asked, smiling in a way that told me he was not without eyes. He was close upon discovering the secret Nerdanel and I kept from him. However, he must have seen my torn expression and pitied my indecision, for he quickly changed the subject. "Have you received more word from Aulë upon your work as a craftsman?"

Ashamed that I had to disappoint him, I sighed and replied, "No. But he told me to wait, and not give up hope, though the time would be long before we spoke again."

Mahtan mulled over this, expression reflective. "I do not condemn him for this. The Valar hold eternity in their hands, and time is even less to them than it is to us. Furthermore, your skill needs time to bloom. Have you kept up practice of your talent?"

"No," I lied quickly, thinking of the rings that sat in my pocket, "But I was told I would not lose my gift."

"You are a strange child," Mahtan said musingly, almost as if he was speaking not to me at all, "Strange and sad, but talented beyond your years, and not only in the crafts of the forge. Perhaps you are the finest of your people--but your sadness chains you to the earth where you might fly."

I listened to this quietly, but knew better to ask. Mahtan spoke not again that night.

We arrived in Tirion the next day, and came again to my father's house. It was strange how often I came and went from, rather than dwelt in, the house in Tirion. Almost, it seemed, that each time I left the house of Finwë and returned to its gates, the stranger to me it became.

This time, the dooryard was empty, so I wasted no time in ordering a steward to lead our four horses to the stables and then myself leading Nerdanel's family into the house.

Ingoldo found us first, as he was walking through the halls, singing to himself quietly. He saw us and stopped, eyes going at once to Nerdanel and brightening in recognition.

"Nerdanel!" He cried emphatically, and ran to her side. She laughed at his enthusiasm and touched his golden hair with a fond hand. Ingoldo hugged her about the knees until she nearly staggered, but the expression on her face was one of pure affection.

Then Ingoldo looked up and saw me, smile dimming a little.

"You came back!" he exclaimed softly, with a bit of admiration, though it was touched with fear.

I felt myself warm when I saw his respect for me, but stiffened at once and said only, "Where is my father?"

"He was with Findis and Mother. . .follow me!"

Ingoldo darted off up a corridor, and the rest of us hastened as quickly as we could to follow. At last, he came to halt in the dining hall, where my father, Indis, and their daughter sat. The midday meal was long-finished and their plates empty, but they stayed on, deep in discussion.

As we entered, Findis was saying something in light, cheerful tones. Suddenly, my father laughed, eyes shining with mirth as he touched Findis' hand affectionately and murmured an answer that made both wife and daughter smile. I felt myself begin to burn with envy, and clenched my fists at my side.

"Father! Your son is back!" Ingoldo cried heedlessly, going to Finwë's side, swift as a flicker of light.

Finwë looked up and saw me, standing there with Nerdanel, Falassë, and Mahtan behind. I heard a sudden sound, and turned to see that Nerdanel and her parents had all sunk into deep reverences, eyes on the ground.

"Rise, my friends," Finwë said. They did as they were told. His face lit when he recognized Nerdanel, but he lifted his eyes to mine quickly. "What brings your return so soon, and with Nerdanel yet again?"

I avoided the gaze of Indis and her children, and answered to my father alone. "I come with Nerdanel and her kin, Mahtan and Falassë, to speak with you, Father, of a matter that I would rather go heard by less of my kin" I balked from the word, but forced it out "than I have with me now."

I tried to evade Indis' expression. But still I saw the hurt but unbroken pride and will to reconcile that lay in her eyes anyway. Finwë turned to where she sat, but when he spoke, he did so only for the ears of his other children.

"Findis, could you go tend to your brother for a time?"

Findis stood obediently in a rustle of skirts, gently taking her brother by his hand, and leaving the room in silence. Finwë smiled kindly at Mahtan and Falassë.

"You are welcome in my home. Please, be seated."

Looking both nervous and delighted as their daughter had upon meeting the King, Mahtan and Falassë quickly took chairs and sat, leaving Nerdanel and me standing together, yet alone. I looked to Nerdanel, and she nodded reassuringly, taking my hand in hers, and I took a deep breath before I spoke.

"Father and Indis; Mahtan and Falassë. Whether it had been to your knowledge or not, Nerdanel and I have been meeting each other many times over the past ten years, and we have come to the decision to wed, at your consent. We shall await your judgment, however long it may take."

There was a surprised silence in the hall, and Nerdanel squeezed my hand. I glanced at the faces of my father and the others, but all of them seemed to only convey astonishment.

Mahtan spoke first. "Young as you may be, Finwion and Nerdanel, I consent to your request, with full good will."

Slowly, Falassë nodded assent. "It would be our honor to accept you into our family, Prince Finwion."

"So young, though," Indis murmured. Her heavy blue gaze fell upon both of us, but lingered on me. "Can they be trusted that this choice is made in full awareness of the weight of this matter? I mean them no ill, but while betrothal can be undone, marriage is everlasting."

"Finwion has ever been wise beyond his years," Finwë replied to Indis, and I was surprised to hear sadness as well as joy in his voice, "And, from what I know of her, Nerdanel is prudent as well. In their matchlessness they may have found each other, though it be in youth." He turned his gaze to us, dark eyes wise but lenient. "If it is your wish, beloved son, it shall be so." At his words, Indis nodded slowly as well.

Happiness fluttered up in my heart with the liveliness of a bird. I turned to Nerdanel and saw the delight in her eyes as well, and in a heartbeat, I took out the two silver rings.

Unable to repress a smile of pride and love, I gave one to Nerdanel, and slid the other upon the index finger of my right hand. Her dark eyes glowing with gladness, Nerdanel took her ring into her hand, gazed upon it for a moment, then put it upon her own finger.

It was done, after so long, after so many years. Nerdanel and I were betrothed.

Because of our youth, Nerdanel and I both agreed that we would wait until we both reached our fortieth year to be married. But we already stayed long together in Tirion to make our plans, ideas flying back and forth like gulls over the water.

"A summer wedding would be wonderful," Nerdanel sighed one day, eyes bright, as she absently twisted the silver ring upon her finger, "What do you think?"

"Summer, yes," I agreed, "But where?"

"Here, I think," Nerdanel murmured thoughtfully, "And who shall come? The Kings of the Teleri and Vanyar, with their kin, and perhaps--would the Valar come?"

"Possibly," I decided, pacing while Nerdanel sat on a chair nearby. Seated as she was, my future wife looked near ready to leap off of it in excitement. "They visit my father often, so this would surely be no trouble."

"But what are we going to _wear_?" She said, leaping to another subject. I grimaced at the thought. "And the _gifts--_Oh, Finwion! A wedding is nearly as much trouble as it is a blessing!"

"Perhaps we should think of other things then," I suggested gently, sitting in a chair beside her, "For we have nearly fifteen years to plan our wedding."

She was silent for a minute, but the notion I had brought up was not what she was turning over in her head.

"I want seven children," Nerdanel said suddenly, voice strangely certain, "Seven. Seven sons. Or maybe seven daughters. I would love all of them so much, and love you the better for their sake. Yes, seven, I think."

"Seven?" I echoed incredulously, "No one has seven children!"

"Well then," Nerdanel replied determinedly, kissing me on the cheek, "We shall be the first, you and I. Just wait."

Author's Note:

Just some special notes for my faithful readers. . .

**RavenLady**, I'm just glad that I'm not wearing the notion of Fëanor into the ground. A little novelty never hurt anyone, right? Thanks for the compliment!

**Unsung Heroine**, you can join in me in throwing an online bridal shower for Nerdanel. :-)

**Shemyaza1**. Wow. There isn't much I can say besides thank you so, so much. I am deeply honored.

**Mizamour**, glad you like it! I wish you the best of luck in continuing to write those angsty stories which so contradict the personalities of their cheerful and happy authors (like you and yours truly!).

Again, thank you to everyone who has reviewed or is yet to review. I wish all of you a happy summer! Until my next posting (TBA - I can only hope to keep your interest by promising a cute Elvenwedding that will occur some time in the next two chapters!), farewell.

Blodeuedd


	14. Chapter Fourteen: Faniel

_Chapter Fourteen: Faniel_

Mahtan, Falassë, and Nerdanel all remained in my father's house for the years before the wedding; it was large enough to fit us all comfortably for years to come.

We were happy enough, and when I grew weary or guilty in Indis' presence, I could always go to the quarter of the house where Nerdanel and her parents stayed. There I would feel safe and content once again.

The years passed with surprising speed, punctuated only by the birth of Finwë and Indis' third child, a daughter named Faniel. Faniel was a quiet infant, fair-haired and blue-eyed like her mother, and neither laughed nor cried overmuch, placid to the point that it caused her parents great concern.

I was far too busy to care about my new half-sister. I was thirty-two years of age when she was born, and two years before her birth Finwë had begun to ready me for the kingship of the Noldor. Despite our shared blood, my father was a demanding tutor who was determined to see the success of my reign surpass his own, and, while he was undeniably patient and just, he spared neither my feelings nor my pride in the preparation. His lengthy and boundlessly didactic lessons in diplomacy and protocol would have been enough to occupy the entirety of my time and attention--even if it had not been for the wedding.

The wedding. . . The atmosphere in the house was almost stifling, for everywhere you looked, somewhere there would be some sign of the momentous event.

Falassë and Indis had taken it upon themselves to be the ones to personally receive and examine bits of fine cloth from every feasible nook and cranny of Eldamar, trying to decide which would be used to make Nerdanel's gown. On most days, all we saw of the two women's presence were the bolts of shimmering fabrics, varying in delectable hue from timid lavender to hungry crimson, being ushered to and from Indis' sewing room. All we heard of the two was the frantic, hurried duet of their endless debating.

Mahtan was often away from the house in the local forges of Tirion, making the gifts that Falassë and Finwë were to give to Nerdanel and me. I tried on numerous occasions to wheedle a glimpse of the secret gifts out of the man, but he refused my pleas with only a jovial laugh or a smile.

Messengers visited Finwë night and day from the Gardens of Lorien and the halls of Taniquetil alike, all of their talk concerning the wedding. Oftentimes, Nerdanel sat with him to receive the guests, her face solemn and almost grave as she listened to their conversations. Only her dancing, beautiful eyes revealed her silent happiness.

As for me, the whole affair was enough to drive me mad. I did what little I could, but always felt worthless once we all gathered into the dining hall and reviewed the day's work. By the end, I was barely clinging on by my fingertips. How could something so exquisite, so innocuous, as matrimony be so mind-crushingly difficult?

The only ones who were not affected by the marriage in the house beside Faniel, who was too young, were Findis and Ingoldo. While they knew of my betrothal, they seemed to think little of it, though the face of Findis, now fifteen, often grew somber when she saw that neither her mother nor her father had time to make for her. But she remained uncomplaining, as she always was, and helped when asked.

Ingoldo remained blithely innocent as ever, for his eleven years of age was still accounted young in the reckoning of the Eldar. He had not yet matured to the appearance he would keep for the rest of his immortal life. However, there were portentous times when his bearing and visage grew noble and fair to behold; those times were when the shining light of his potential gleamed through the dull thickness of childish simplicity as the light of the Trees shone through even the cloudiest of days.

Despite the disinterest of the children and hasty preparations of the adults, the night before the wedding stole in upon us. I was filled with unrest and worry, unable to find sleep.

It seemed as if there were a thousand things that needed doing, a thousand minor details I knew we had attended to, though it seemed to me as if they had all been undone, and now needed to be reworked. Cursing my sleepless mind, I paced the floors of my bedchamber, stopping intermittently to look out the window to the starry skies of summer that wheeled above. After many hours, I felt that not even my chamber could contain me, and wandered out into the hallways, careful not to make much noise.

I came to a colonnaded walkway, my favorite of all the ones in the house, which looked out over the plains of the Calacirya. Seating myself between two pillars, and letting my legs dangle out over the walls, I gazed down upon the gardens below, praying that I would be soothed by the sounds of the night and the cool air.

"So you wander too," remarked my father's voice from behind me. I glanced behind me and saw Finwë, his handsome face pale in the light of Telperion.

"I am restless," I murmured in reply, and that was really all I needed to say. My father had known me long and well; words were the simplest method we used to convey our thoughts.

"Finwion, Finwion. Not even fifty years old and about to be married," my father said in a sighing voice, "But you are brave. I did not get a moment of rest the night before I was to be wed to Míriel, and I was far older than you then. For one so young, you are resilient."

"I do not feel it," I commented wryly. Finwë smiled at my dry fear, and approached me to lay a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

"Rest easy, my son. Nerdanel is kind and wise, and loves you well. You were not wrong in choosing her, nor she you."

"It is not Nerdanel I worry about."

"The ceremony, then? It is harder to ruin the marriage ceremony than you think, I say you that."

I took a deep breath, trying to grasp some of Finwë's calm in my own slippery hands. My father watched me calmly, quietly; I could feel his gaze upon me even as I turned my head away.

"Do you think I am ready?" I asked, waiting upon his word.

"Yes. If I had to say it a thousand times to make you believe, I would. The Valar have graced you with wisdom that few others possess, and that wisdom has readied you in both body and mind. You grow swifter than most children of the Elves, as if some secret fire feeds you. But that fire shall not consume you. Not for some time yet." His eyes, strangely liquid, fled my gaze and roved the silver-lit plains.

"_Fëanáro_," I muttered, tasting the bitter sharpness of the word knifing across my tongue. There was a pain to the name, but it was all I had left of my mother's love, aside from a faceless love of embroidery and faint voice, quiet as a shade's, that tugged at the sleeves of memory.

"_Fëanáro_," my father echoed in agreement, nodding.

"If she were here--" I began, feeling sour tears rise in my throat.

"If she were--?"

"Would she love me?"

"She would love you and be proud."

"Promise?" The word left my mouth like a feeble child's hand, grasping in an impenetrable dark for something, anything. But it was all I could say.

"I promise."

My father's footsteps faded in the night, and I was left alone, but somehow, something--something made even the darkness seem light.

Author's Note:

I can't believe I called named this chapter after Faniel. She really isn't prominently featured here at all. It's a bit of a misnomer, really. Moving on. . .

_All_ of my darling readers are cordially invited to Nerdanel's online bridal shower. If you wish, you may leave her a gift in your reviews, and I will be sure to pass them on to her (except for sexy lingerie; I'm going to have to selfishly keep those for myself!).

I, for one, am giving my gorgeous Elven girl a blender. Because blenders are quite useful and I've seen too many houses lacking one.

Thanks (as usual) to **Mizamour**, **Ellfine**, and **RavenLady** for their thoughtful reviews. :) I feel like I can always count on your reviews to brighten my day and let me know someone of importance is reading this. Any stories of your own that you want me to review? Please, let me know.

As for **Archaic Scribe**, I know it will probably take you a while to struggle to this point in my bizarre attempt at an epic, but please accept my thanks for your pleasantly extensive and observant review of Chapter 1. You rock!

And finally, to answer **Unsung Heroine**'s question (one which all of you may have had in your heads at some point or another): yes, I am planning to fully chronicle the life of Fëanor. I promised a complete biography in my blurb, and that is what the unsuspecting FanFiction community is going to get. It's going to take a while (a recent outline says _Fire_ will be upward of fifty chapters and around 160 pages or so), but I hope you all are tenacious enough to hang in there. A lot of it is already written (I began developing this idea in 2003, and have been working on it ever since), so it's just a matter of editing and posting. (Ha. . .'a matter of editing and posting.' Famous last words.) At any rate, it's good to know I have support for the moment.

Chapter 15 arrives next weekend! sigh Another typical June marriage. Except conducted in Quenya. :)

Love,

Blodeuedd


	15. Chapter Fifteen: The Wedding

_Chapter Fifteen: The Wedding_

Sometime later, I returned to my room, fell into a brief sleep, and woke early, perhaps earlier than I should have.

On the chair near the hearth in my chamber was my raiment for the day, a fine tunic and leggings, both in the colors of my house. My boots lay nearby, waiting to be walked in, waiting to follow in the footsteps of fate.

I quickly set about dressing and washing my face in the basin nearby, savoring the cool, gentle runnels of water running down my face, like emotionless tears. When I left the chamber, I was caught up almost at once in the familiar anxious, loving feel of the house. The emotion only increased as I came to the dining hall.

Our breakfast was brief and quiet, for we were saving our hunger for the lavish noonday feast, which was served before the wedding took place.

Nonetheless, Indis and Falassë fretted over Nerdanel all through the meager meal as if she were a small child, tugging at her spun copper curls with worried fingers and glancing at her face with restless eyes. It surprised me to see even Indis, usually so calm and cool, grow pale with concern over the quietly compliant yet glowing girl.

Ingoldo was caught up in the excitement as well, watching everything with wide grey eyes and talking to everyone at once. Findis ate calmly, though she watched Nerdanel with a slight glimmer of envious admiration in her blue eyes. Finwë and Mahtan sat with the stiffness of men who did not want to admit their anxiety, not wanting to worry over things like their wives.

An hour or so before noon, Nerdanel left with her mother and Indis to make ready, and Finwë and Mahtan went to wait for the guests. I was left with my half-brother and sister, eating the last of our food in silence. As was customary, I drank the watered wine that was served to me, but wished I could have had something else to drink instead, for the wine, diluted as it was, lent me no ease.

The minutes passed as slowly as heartbeats, but still too swiftly for me. When I began to hear the murmur of the visitors arriving, I stood my feet and left the table without a farewell, heading for the shaded pavilion amid the trees at the foot of the Mindon Eldaliéva, where the wedding was to take place.

The day was cloudless and fair; nevertheless, the untroubled sky and balmy air did nothing to quell the roiling of my stomach. But when I came to the serene place among the trees, dappled with golden lances of Laurelin's light, and saw Nerdanel standing there, all doubt faded.

She seemed taller, more alert, and more beautiful than ever. Her face fairly shone with joy and anticipation. No disquiet marred her brow, and the stormy seas in her eyes seemed to be gentled--perhaps not entirely tamed, but calmed indeed. Indis and Falassë had dressed her in a loose fitting, flowing gown of the finest garnet velvet, brocaded with fine silver thread and slashed with a blue that was the color of the firmaments just before the stars shine, the moment that is torn between day and night. Her hair had been brushed and combed until it shone a smoky crimson, and it fell unbound to her waist, frail curls framing her face. About her brow was a golden diadem, with only a small, modest ruby set in it, like a droplet of blood above her eyes.

What struck me most though, even more than her gown, her face, or her bearing, was the love that filled me when I looked at her. The knowledge that I would have done anything for Nerdanel in that instant was enough to wash away all the hesitation in me.

Taking a deep breath, I walked to her, and for a moment, before the guests came, we were alone in the light, the trees, the dancing shadows.

"You look so beautiful," I told her sincerely, brushing her cheek with my fingers, and she smiled, a faint blush of rose upon her cheeks making her even lovelier.

"And you so handsome," she replied, holding my gaze with bright eyes, "We have nothing to fear, you and I."

"And fear we shall not," I promised, and then glanced over the grassy field. "They must wonder where we are. Shall we go to the feast?" I held out my hand, and she took it in her own, nodding.

Together we walked back to the house of Finwë, listening to the birdsong and sighing wind.

The wedding feast was lavish. The long benches of the hall were filled with guests from many lands, and the tables filled with food, but I ate sparingly, for my lean appetite seemed to have survived even the departure of my worry. The others ate as they would of the fine wines, roast hart, rich broths, and warm, flaky loaves of golden bread, but I felt I could not even stomach a sip of _miruvórë_, the mead of Valinor, sweeter than any nectar and saved for occasions of great importance and happiness. While the others talked and laughed about me, I could only stare at my empty plate and goblet, running my fingers anxiously across the silken tablecloth over and over, as if it were unclean.

Often, Nerdanel would catch my eye, and smile with all the love in her heart laid bare to me. For a moment I would feel heartened enough to perhaps try and take a slab of bread, or a swallow of wine. But she would turn away, distracted by someone saying her name or speaking to her, and I would be unable to eat again, wondering if this was how being in love would always feel.

When the feast wound to a close, the diverse range of guests began to stand and drift towards the pavilion. I left with Nerdanel to take our places before the ceremony began.

We were to stand at the opposite ends of the dais until our parents blessed us, but before we parted Nerdanel gave my hand a quick squeeze and murmured, "Good luck."

I replied only with a taut smile, and we parted and moved to our places. The masses of people soon came into the clearing as well, and I caught sight of familiar faces--Ingwë, from the slopes of Taniquetil; Quennar Onótimo, the keeper of the annals and records of Valinor; Olwë, Lord of the Teleri Elves, who wandered singing on the shores of the Sea--but I quickly glanced away from them, fearing that recognizing them would make me even more apprehensive than I already was. Above me, the winds stirred in the leaves, telling me that while their presence was polite and discreet, the Valar were present at the wedding of the Noldor King's son as well.

Finwë and Falassë joined us upon the dais, Finwë standing beside me, Falassë standing beside Nerdanel. When all was silent and the assembly stood motionless in the glen, watching us, Finwë and Falassë stepped forward, and Finwë spoke first, saying the words that began all marriages in Valinor.

"On this day in the Undying Lands, beneath the gaze of the Valar immortal, we join the lives of Finwion, son of Finwë and Míriel, and Nerdanel, daughter of Mahtan and Falassë. Blessed be the fate that grants our children such happiness."

Falassë spoke next, face lustrous with joy. "Proud be our hearts to bind our children together, and glad our spirits to welcome the one whom our child loves into our house."

She then held out her slender, white hand to Nerdanel; Finwë extended his own to me. Slowly, as one, Nerdanel and I walked forward to take their hands in ours. For a moment, I held Finwë's hand in mine, hoping my fingers did not tremble as I was certain they must, but then he joined my other hand to Nerdanel and we all were united in a ring, faces upturned to the skies.

"Manwë Súlimo, Lord of the Air, to whom all birds are dear," my father said, voice strong but reverent, "May you approve of this union and grant my son with your blessing."

"Varda Elentári, Star-kindler, who loves the Eldar as her children, may you approve of this union and grant my daughter with your blessing," Falassë murmured in near echo of my father's words.

"Eru, Father of All," Falassë and Finwë then said as one, "May you approve of this union and grant our children with your blessing. May they walk forever in your light and favor."

The moment was weighed down by the strength of those words, for invoking the name of Eru was not to speak lightly. The air itself seemed to hum with power, and I shut my eyes, suddenly lightheaded. Suddenly, Finwë's hand dropped from mine, and I held only Nerdanel's.

"Exchange the rings, and may it be that you shall treasure and remember this hour always, come what may," Finwë commanded, holding out two gold rings to us. I looked to Nerdanel, frozen. She smiled demurely as she loosened her hand from mine and quickly tugged the silver ring from her finger. Eyes soft, she offered it to me, even as she took a gold ring and slid it onto the finger where the silver ring had once shone.

"The ring of betrothal I return to your keeping, beloved one," she said slowly, voice unwavering and brave, gaze never leaving my face, "I ask only for the ring of marriage in return, a mark of your devotion to me."

I took the ring she had given me, and slid it into my breast pocket, where it had lain in the first years of its making, then took my silver ring from my finger and extended it to her, taking the other gold ring and placing it upon my right hand.

"And my ring of betrothal I return to your keeping, beloved one, and ask only for the ring of marriage in return, a mark of your devotion to me."

"Let it be so," Finwë said, as Nerdanel and I held each other's hand once more, the breeze tugging at Nerdanel's loose curls. Then he produced from his pocket a gleaming necklace of gold chain, upon which hung only a single clear diamond, and fastened it about Nerdanel's neck. Eyes bright, she inclined her head to my father in wordless thanks. Falassë waited until this quiet exchange was complete, and then pinned a golden brooch inlaid with a diamond of similar size and shape at the throat of my tunic.

All was still then, and Nerdanel and I stared at each other in disbelief. Was it truly so? Were we not dreaming?

I looked to my father for support, and he nodded, knowing the astonishment I felt. When Nerdanel saw Finwë's assurance, she too knew it to be true, and she put her arms about me, and, uncaring of the eyes watching us, we kissed for a long, long time.

The celebration lasted for only a few more hours afterwards, as we greeted and spoke with the hundreds of well-wishers and kinsfolk who had come to witness the marriage. On an ordinary day, I would have soon grown dizzied by the endless, pressing tides of people, but having Nerdanel fast at my side lent me enough valor to last a dozen more such events.

When the last few visitors took their leave, Finwë perceived the heated impatience in Nerdanel's and my hearts, and discreetly guided the rest of our two families to stay the night in the secluded guest wing, leaving us to our own devices. Between deepening kisses, she and I whispered our laughing thanks to the deserted halls as I led her to my room, our hands closely entwined.

In that gilded age, it seemed like the joy and love Nerdanel and I shared that day and night was everlasting, as immortal as Valinor itself. Now, now I know that once I left the shores of that land countless years later, the immortality would fade.

But, being young, I did not know it then.

Author's Note:

Fëanor and Nerdanel, Arda's first sex addicts. How else could those seven boisterous boys been brought into this world?

Speaking of those seven boys, you all bear witness now to my promise to **Unsung Heroine** to invent the best young Caranthir imaginable! Before I read her wonderful stories--which I recommend highly to all of you--I was planning on making Caranthir the angry delinquent type, but now I have so much more to work with!

I'm glancing at my summer schedule and it's looking to be almost as busy as my school year. Music programs, community service, applying for a office in a certain student-run organization (**Anglachel **knows of what I speak). . . busy, busy, busy!

But I will, to quote Verizon, never stop working for you.

Thanks as usual for all the love and support. I am proud to have the best bunch of reviewers (who are also pretty darn good writers!) on this whole site!

Best,

Blodeuedd


	16. Chapter Sixteen: Nelyafinwë

_Chapter Sixteen: Nelyafinwë_

After the wedding celebrations ended, Mahtan and Falassë said farewell and returned to their home by the Sea, but Nerdanel and I remained in my father's house for some time yet. Summer passed, and winter came. Nerdanel seemed to follow the retreat of the flowers and growing things into the chilled ground, growing more and more reticent with each passing week.

One morning in spring, made restless by my wife's caginess and the quiet of the house, I rode out alone upon the Calacirya. Nerdanel had declined to ride with me, as she had of late. I let my horse canter until he was spent, then aimlessly patrolled the flower-spangled fields, unsure and discontented of what life had presented me with that year.

When the light of Laurelin waxed, I returned to the house and found only Indis and Findis, working at a loom together, golden and dark heads bent in quiet discussion. Faniel sat in the corner, aloof from her kinswomen and the day's work alike, honey-colored hair falling over her childish face. She hummed a soft, haunting tune as she fingered the corner of her frock, shaping the fabric into small, crinkled mountains and vales. Even at eleven, she already showed a partiality to silence over talk.

Ingoldo, now the reckless age of twenty-one, was nowhere to be found, but I knew he was likely out frolicking among the people, as he so loved to do of late.

"Where is Nerdanel?" I asked immediately, and Indis turned her head, eyes blue and bright with laughter.

"Abed, Finwion," she said calmly, setting down her shuttle. Curious, Findis looked on, a length of turquoise yarn lying limp and forgotten in her hands.

Faniel seemed to ignore us, but her dancing hands grew still. Something told me that the youngest daughter of Finwë was listening, even though her eyes did not gaze directly upon us.

"Is she ill?" I demanded, irritated at Indis' oblique answer. Indis laughed, and I bristled even more at her amusement at my ignorance, even though she seemed not to mock me.

"No, young one!" She replied, still smiling. "Only weary, and expecting your child. Can you not tell?" Even Findis, always so solemn in my presence, smiled at that gentle, motherly prod at my masculine ignorance, but I only glowered at them and hurried through the winding corridors to the room Nerdanel and I shared.

Nerdanel was indeed in bed, and seeing her pale face, my heart instantly went cold with worry. What if she were to be like Míriel, and fade so that her child might live? I knelt at the bedside, feeling the tears start to well up, though they were more for my mother than my wife. As I frantically struggled to surpress the rising childish tears, Nerdanel stirred.

"Do not cry," she whispered, touching an elegant white hand to my brow, her fingers cool and soothing. "It is only our little one," she murmured, closing her eyes after she saw that it was I who had come to visit her.

"You are well?" I asked at last, in a quavering voice. Nerdanel shifted idly again, eyes remaining closed, fingers twined in my dark hair, but she smiled, showing me a brave side of her I had never seen before.

"Yes. I am well. Just--tired. I have two lives within me now, not one. I must care for the both of us. You too--the three of us." I saw a reflective glint from beneath her lashes, and knew her eyes were slightly open, so I smiled back at her, trying to reassure both of us at once. The glint brightened for a moment, then disappeared, and her hand dropped lifelessly from my hair.

For a moment, my heart clenched in fear. Not gone. Not gone. Had I lost her?

Then I heard the steady, even rhythm of Nerdanel's breathing, and knew she had only fallen asleep again. I watched her for a time, marveling on the sound peace she had found, the peace I could never find even in sleep, then left the room as soundlessly as I could.

The thought of Míriel, now returned to me after many years of dormancy, refused to leave.

I began to have nightmares, and what laughter had been brought to me began to fade. Even Nerdanel's pregnancy brought me no joy, for I wondered if any and all who were near to me were affected by me. In the darkest hours, I would wonder if Nerdanel and our child would both die, for both were touched by my fire, as Míriel had been.

But there was no way to tell yet, until Nerdanel gave birth, in the summer not too far away. Each day slipped through my fingers like grains of sand, try as I would to prolong them by sheer force of desperate fancy. Every sleepless night always gave way to a restless day, and the Trees waxed and waned with a malignant speed.

On the first anniversary of our wedding, Nerdanel went into labor, and a midwife was called. All I could do was wait outside the door of our chamber, pacing or sitting at intervals.

Indis passed in and out of the room like a wan ghost, saying nothing to me as she left my quarters or as she returned with a cloth or a ewer of water. Findis would enter the room as well at times, and left always none too late after, face pale and growing paler as she heard Nerdanel's rare but alarming shrieks, but never with a word for me. Finwë would come by to see me at times, with words of comfort, but his visits grew less and less as the night grew deeper.

I could not bring myself to sleep, for worry ate at my heart, and as the hours stretched to midnight, I was in a state of half-sleep and despair.

Sometime, in the hours before morning, I felt a hand touch mine, but I could not look up, head weighed down by the hunger for news that burned in me and the anxious misery that strangled my insides.

Slowly, though, I began to feel the comforting warmth in the touch of the hand, and the quiet, patient love that lay there. Like the light of day, it chased away my wretched grief and concern, and pervaded the darkest corners of my soul. Grateful, I looked up, words of thanks rising to my lips, but the words did not leave my mouth when I was surprised by who I saw.

It was Faniel, her delicate face serene and lenient, her eyes shining as quietly as the stars. Where Findis pitied me, I saw in Faniel only trust, a boundless faith that believed in all the world, forgiving all crimes and wrongs in the blueness of her eyes.

A torrent of emotions rose up in me, hate mixed with gratitude, kinship mixed with resentment, but before I could say anything, the door of my chamber flew open and Indis called my name. Faniel lifted her hand from mine, saying nothing, and watched me hasten into the room.

Before my mind could take in anything of the scene before me, a swaddled infant was thrust into my arms, and a sourceless voice said, "Your son, Finwion."

Feeling my knees buckle, I clutched the child close to me, looking down on a pale, sleeping face that looked rather like my own, even if the coppery hair that crowned his head was entirely Nerdanel's.

But it would not have made any difference at all--even if the child had been the weakest, ugliest thing on the earth, I would have loved him just as much as I loved him in the form in which he had been given to me. I loved him because he was blood of my blood, and that blood had been joined with Nerdanel's in a way that Nerdanel and I ourselves could never attain. I loved him in every way possible, and for every reason possible.

"_Nelyafinwë_, Third Finwë--my son, and grandson of my father," I murmured through my tender smile, tentatively lifting a hand to stroke the downy tufts of subdued crimson. The baby stirred in his sleep, rubbing his eye with a tiny fist, but gave no other sign of waking. If I had been given all the time on earth in that hour, I would have spent it gazing upon my beautiful son, marveling and admiring and loving. He was more perfect than any statue Nerdanel could have created, more perfect than anything I could have devised in the forge

"Let me see him again, Finwion," I heard Nerdanel say, and reluctantly looked up. She lay in the bed, face shining with sweat but also with happiness, pale arms outstretched to me. Still smiling giddily, I walked to the bedside, kneeling beside her as she took our son in her arms, glancing up at me with dark eyes that shone with delight. I smiled back at her, a little dazed, and kissed her on the brow.

"You have given him a father-name?" She asked breathlessly, and I nodded and told her what it was.

"Nelyafinwë. It is beautiful, but such a long name for so little a babe," Nerdanel remarked, looking down at the small body nestled against hers, "So little, but so handsome already. _Maitimo. _I shall name him Maitimo."

Not long after the naming of Nelyafinwë was announced publicly to the families, I came of age at fifty years old, and the time came for me to choose my own names in the ceremony of _Essecilmë_, or Name-Choosing. Customarily, I would have chosen my name at ten years old--as Nerdanel and other Eldar had--but when I had reached that age, I had told my father to wait, until I was ready. My entreaty was accounted strange among my people, but now, with a wife and a son, I felt the time was ripe.

In autumn, when the days grew short, I met with my father, Nerdanel, and Nelyafinwë in the main hall in the empty gray hours before Laurelin's light truly began to shine forth. It was exactly as I had planned it--I was surrounded by the people most dear to me, in the season that seemed fitting, in the place I still loved best, despite how estranged I had become in past years.

Regardless of the early hour, the other three were wide-awake, even Nelyafinwë, who looked about at everything with wide dark eyes, and was just learning how to smile. The significance of the moment was great enough to rouse even the most somnolent, and I for one was awake enough to feel slightly nervous.

"So, my son," Finwë said, smiling at me, "What is your name?"

I felt _Finwion_ gather at the tip of my tongue, instinctively ready to be spoken, but I clamped my mouth shut.

I would be Finwion no longer.

I looked at all of them--my father, my wife, my son, feeling pride and love and trust glow like bright embers in my heart.

"I am--my name is, I mean--Fëanáro Curufinwë, my father."

"Fëanáro Curufinwë," Finwë murmured, pleased as I was with the sound of it, and Nerdanel smiled at me over Nelyafinwë's head as he tugged restlessly at her fingers.

I looked up to the gray ceiling, ornately carved, but forced myself to see through it, to the skies above.

_Aulë, can you hear me? I have taken the name you gave me--Curufinwë._

But I knew that Aulë was not the only one to whom I owed my gratitude. Tears leapt to my eyes as I thought of the other.

_Mother, I have taken the name you gave me, because I love you. I shall be Fëanáro, always._

Author's Note:

Who else here wants an angelic little son like Maitimo? I myself wouldn't mind in the least, even if it does mean having to forget my desperate dream of marrying darling Pete Doherty of Libertines and Babyshambles fame, for wedding another bad boy, Fëanor, so that those magic Elven genes are in the mix.

Thanks to **Mizamour** and **Ellfine** for their characteristically nice reviews. I am so indebted to you both. If anything of yours needs a review, please tell me! I feel like this deal (however lovely it is for me to receive such thoughtful reviews) is rather one-sided. **All of you** shouldn't hesitate to self-promote; you're all worth whatever outrageous claims you make and more! ;-)

**Unsung Heroine**: Yes, Caranthir will be quite the gallant gentleman once I'm done rewriting his character! Or at least, quick-tempered in a way that is attractive. His originally angry nature won't be missed; his father certainly has got enough of the angry delinquent in him to go around.

**RavenLady**, I promise I won't let you guys down! To drop this story right as it's gathering the first bits of momentum towards its inevitable end would be simply atrocious. You're all welcome to reprimand me if I show any sign of hesitation, because as I said, it's mostly written out and there's no real reason to balk at the notion of a 30-minute editing/adding/posting job.

Belated but heartfelt thanks to **Shemyaza1**! Gotta love those Silmarillion bad boys, no? As strong and as inaccessible as Tolkien made them, even they have to have some pre-nuptial jitters.

**Dawn Felagund**, thank you so much for your kind reviews; I'm glad that I made a canon marriage proposal so surprising! (By the way, who _doesn't _occasionally indulge in FanFiction at the workplace or somewhere else where it is equally illicit?) Thanks also for catching another one of my infamous 'look-it's-the-sun' errors. I can't believe I haven't had such a problem with the moon yet. . . I guess the sun is just there to forever thwart my efforts.

You also (very wisely, might I add) raised the question of why Finwë would bother with appointing an heir if he's immortal and living in a 'deathless' land. . . I can't exactly give you a perfect reason, because it's quite a valid point that the naming of an heir is completely futile if the king is never going to actually fall ill or die.

My only justification is a not-very-relevant memory I have of playing some imaginary game with my brother quite a few years ago. He was a peasant boy who had slain the dragon or some such, and I was the queen. As a reward for his heroic feat, I offered to make him the Duke of the Other Half of the Backyard, but he refused. When I asked him why, he replied, "I like it over here better."

Finwë was chosen by the Valar to speak for his people; but maybe (like my brother) he had had plans for another life before this unexpected appointment. The Valar, decent beings that they are, would have probably given him and the other Elven-kings the option of choosing an heir to rule after they themselves grew weary of the post. With the approval of the Valar, the heir could take over so the original king could 'retire' and go farm immortal sheep in the hinterlands, like he'd initially planned. It's not much of an answer, and I'm sorry, but it's all I've got. :-) Best of luck in the ice cream biz!

Stay tuned y'all; Maglor is on the way! Hope you're enjoying the summer or the respective southern-hemisphere season.

Best,

Blodeuedd

p.s. Does anyone know if there's some sort of limit as to how many chapters a story can have here? I hope I don't have to turn my singular epic into a drama in two acts, but I have no idea how much is too much by FanFiction's standards.


	17. Chapter Seventeen: Forging Gold

_Chapter Seventeen: Forging Gold_

Three years after my _Essecilmë_, my father surprised Nerdanel and me with a belated but nonetheless welcome wedding gift: a house of our own, on the northern walls of Tirion, overlooking the Trees.

By the lofty standards of Noldorin architecture, the house was cramped and unpretentious. Its windows were simple, the white walls smooth and bare. The dooryard also was a simple affair: a lush and grassy space fenced by trees and blooming bushes of white flowers. Even the small stable was plain and unembellished. The entire residence seemed built for comfort rather than elegance, a house better suited to stand beside that of Mahtan than among the tall structures of Tirion.

It was because of this that Nerdanel and I felt accepted into the house almost at once. We were happy to have a place for Nelyafinwë to grow up, a place that was rightfully ours. Ever industrious, we proudly managed to maintain our household without the aid of servants, and took great pleasure in dividing up the chores. Finwë came to visit often, with a smile for his grandson and conversation of many things. I almost forgot I had half-sisters or a brother, until the day when Ingoldo accompanied his father--my father--on his visit to our home.

I barely knew the young man who stepped onto the threshold of my house. So young, but already showing the beginnings of a firm, stubborn chin, and a proud cast to his handsome, elegantly-boned face. His hair was as golden as a field of wheat, glinting with a nearly white sheen where it fell upon his well-made tunic. It was the hair that reminded me of who it must be, and my grip tightened unconsciously on the back of the chair that I had made ready for Finwë.

"Ingoldo," I muttered, almost as if it were a curse, in a voice that made Nerdanel send me a cautious glance. What reason did _he_ have to come? To be a thorn in my side that drew both blood and unhappy memories?

Ingoldo smiled kindly, but it was as if he were smiling to politely humor someone who was half-mad. I felt my teeth grind as he replied, "Well, yes, I am Ingoldo, but my chosen name now is Nolofinwë."

I caught Finwë's eye as he walked to take the chair I gripped so strongly, but my father said nothing, eyes empty of explanation. Hurt confusion boiled up in me, and I forgot reason as a red cloak of wrath settled on my shoulders. I quickly smiled, though it felt like a grimace, and corrected myself. "Nolofinwë."

Nelyafinwë sat near the hearth, playing with some of the wooden toys I had carved for him. When he saw Finwë, he smiled with happy recognition and walked--rather painstakingly, for he was still young--to his grandfather's knee, holding a toy aloft. He had just had his _Essecilmë_, and while he had chosen Maitimo to be his name publicly, I was proud he had chosen the name I had given him as a title to be used within the family.

"This is my horse," he told Finwë solemnly, gaze vacillating between the carved animal and his grandfather's face, "He is not real, but someday I will have a horse just like him."

Finwë smiled down at his grandson, then up at me, wordless thanks in his eyes; I felt my wounds begin to close. I had given my father Nelyafinwë. Nolofinwë's son--if any, and I prayed otherwise--would have to wait behind mine. Nerdanel, nimbly observing the awkwardness of the moment, stood and offered Nolofinwë her chair.

"Here, my lord," she said, but Nolofinwë shook his head.

"I will not take a chair from a sister," he protested with a slight bow. My teeth ground together again; I ached from his polite perfection, his command of manners that were as golden as his hair. He was almost everything I was not, and I wanted both to be like him and unlike him all at once. I could barely understand the beginnings of the turmoil he roused in me. _Damn him._

"How are things at home, Father?" I asked, diverting myself, taking a seat at the hearth. Nelyafinwë laughed as I held my arms out to him, and readily crawled into my lap, leaving his wood horse with Finwë, clearly trusting his grandfather with the precious plaything. Finwë looked down at the toy musingly, running a thoughtful finger along the blunt wooden lines.

"All is well," he replied, eyes still on the horse, "The Noldor are content and so am I. Or so I hear. Nolofinwë is more among the people than I am now though," he added. I resented the special smile he sent to his other son. "And he tells me all the tidings I need."

"The people tell me much," Nolofinwë added with infuriatingly impeccable timing, "And all of their words are praise. Praise for our family, praise for the Valar."

"What if it is only a pretense?" I asked suddenly, only wanting to prove Nolofinwë wrong, "What if they see your closeness to their King, and think it better to speak good rather than ill? Do you truly know what feelings they nurture in their hearts?"

There was a silence that would have been delightful, if not for the surprised expression on my father's face as he realized I had taken advantage of his introduction of Nolofinwë into the conversation.

Nolofinwë stopped short, confused and--I could barely suppress a smile--_hurt_ by my sudden and gratuitous assault.

"Why would they have reason to lie to me, in this the most hallowed of realms, the lands that know no sorrow?" He asked innocently.

"Fear," I replied, "Fear of the Valar may guard their tongues. And if they fear those who are called their protectors, then what are the Valar? They are no guardians at all, if they are feared. Would they not be our keepers? Surely if they hold the keys to the walls that protect us, they hold the keys to our cage."

Nerdanel and Finwë were silent, both anxious but not wanting to intervene in this clash. Nelyafinwë, sensing the tension in the room, tugged at my sleeve urgently. I did not glance down at him at all; my mind was wholly bent upon my half-brother.

"You blaspheme," Nolofinwë said. Even though his voice suddenly angry, it did not rise above a dangerous whisper, a whisper that spoke a blatant warning I chose to ignore.

"Should_ I _be afraid too?" I shot back, "If I am to be afraid, so should the rest of the Noldor, and that fear shall eat the truth until it is only the honeyed words you wish to hear."

Nolofinwë stood to his feet, tall and as golden as Laurelin. I was almost frightened at the reverence that he held for the Valar in his blinded eyes. "The Valar do not seek to keep us against our will!"

"You speak their words. Should I believe the views of such a coddled pet--"

"How dare you speak so before the King!"

"_The King_ is my _father!_"

"He is _my _father as well!"

I laughed in Nolofinwë's face, laughed at the foolishness our argument had turned to, laughed at the incredulous, wounded expression on his face, and laughed at myself, feeling victory and self-loathing at once.

"_Fëanáro!_" Finwë hissed angrily, and I stopped short, laughter frozen in my throat, smile falling into a solemn, embarrassed mask. Hearing my name spoken in such a way by my father was as if he had struck me hard across the face--beyond enough to put an end to my anger and envy. A thousand words of apology rose to my lips. Before I could speak, my father stood.

"Come," he said offhandedly to Nolofinwë, nodding politely to Nerdanel, who was too shocked to return the motion. He was halfway to the door. "We are leaving."

I stood, placing Nelyafinwë on the ground, ready to follow after my father. The door shut, the sound severing me from any redemption.

"Father. . ." The word was almost a whimper, filled with regret, but soon the cold remorse heated into meaningless anger. Anger directed at Nolofinwë for spurring me into such hate. I could place no blame on my father.

It was _Nolofinwë's_ fault; he had estranged me from my father, he deserved an ill turn in kind.

For many years, I chased that anger at my half-brother almost to extinction, until I almost felt ready to forgive, but the emotions waited behind a thin layer of reserve, until the slightest touch would break them free of their prison.

I could not sleep that night, and Nerdanel knew it. She rolled over in bed to face me, face pale in the silver light, her eyes merely taking in the sight of me for a moment.

"Why, Fëanáro?" she asked simply.

"I do not know what came over me," I murmured, staring at the white of the sheets, not wanting to face her sad, curious gaze, "I was so angry to see--to see _him_ with my father--" The anger began gnawing at me again. "What right does he have to go with Finwë? What kind of--"

Nerdanel put a hand to my mouth, stilling my incensed words. "Do not think of that now. But Fëanáro, why did you risk your father's wrath to argue with your brother?"

I wanted to tell her, to tell myself, that Nolofinwë was _not_ my brother, but I bit those words back and tried to answer her question precisely. "It was as if I saw him as my father's heir, as Nolofinwë stood at his side. I could not bear it. I wanted to hurt him so badly. . . Maybe not just with words."

Nerdanel's calm, attentive expression did not waver, but I saw the shudder in her eyes, and I knew I had gone too far again.

"No," I mumbled lamely, and moved to roll away from her, but she held me close.

"You are so different, my husband, and your difference from others endears you to me. I fear your wrath not at all. You can speak to me. Always." Her eyes searched my own; the words were too fervent to be ignored.

"Truly, Nerdanel?" I asked, disbelieving.

"Yes," she replied adamantly, and kissed me on the brow, "Now, go to sleep, and we shall talk more tomorrow."

I took more of Nerdanel's counsel the next day, and on her advice I rode again to my father's house at the foot of the Mindon. It was strange to do so, like I was returning after another of my long journeys, but I swallowed my unease and steeled myself for whatever would come.

Being a member of the royal house, I needed no permission to enter, but looked about for my father. I saw no one else, save for Indis in silent passing, until I found Finwë in the gardens, watching the flowers with the slow, leisurely gaze, regardless of time or movement, inherent to the Eldar.

"Father," I said, softly, trying to think of something to say. My father looked up at me, eyes dark as motionless pools.

"Yes, Fëanáro?" He asked, voice as quiet as his eyes.

"I am sorry that I spoke such rash and angry words before you and Nolofinwë yesterday," I murmured sincerely, though there remained a sore shard of my spirit that ached for vengeance upon my half-brother.

"Oh, my son, you may think it strange, but I forgive you readily. It is only as your mother named you. You are a spirit of fire all too truly, but I must understand your temperament before you will be able to forgive your brother."

I almost collapsed with relief. "Thank you."

"Someday, though--something tells me you may just go beyond my reach."

My respite ended abruptly; more perceptive words to tie me in the knots of fate.

"Well, you are free to go if you want," Finwë said at last, "I will not keep you from your family. Give Nelya my love."

"Yes, Father," I stammered, surprised by his sudden change in the conversation, and raised a hand in farewell, then left the garden.

I almost ran into Faniel, who stood silently in the hallway. She looked up at me with piercing blue eyes, and smiled in that strange calming way she had, taking one of my hands in hers, holding it palm up in her own. I was too surprised to pull away.

"Have hope," she said, speaking to me for the first time.

Faniel's words did not leave my head as I rode homeward, and slowly my confusion eased. Nerdanel met me in the doorway with a finger to her lips.

"I just barely managed to get Nelya to sleep," she told me in a whisper, moving away to stir at the meal cooking in a pot over the fire. "I had to tell him two stories before he would agree to a nap before we had dinner."

I smiled amusedly at the fond, loving voice she used, so motherly and still new. "Motherhood suits you, does it not?"

"Fatherhood suits _you_," she agreed, straightening from being bent over the hearth, and walked to me, putting her arms about me, standing on tiptoe to whisper in my ear and prompt, "Seven, though, remember? Seven children."

Her nearness made me tremble. I stifled a hasty laugh, but the prospect of having more children did not seem so impossible now that we were married. "I will not say no," I replied, putting my arms around her waist, "But we shall see."

Nerdanel got another part of her wish fulfilled, for she became evidently pregnant the next spring, and gave birth in the winter to a handsome, dark-haired baby boy. I named him also after Finwë--_Kanafinwë_, or Finwë of the Commanding Voice.

Nerdanel took longer to think of a name for her son. It was not until a few days after the birth, when the entire family was gathered together at the hearth after dinner, that she looked down on the sleeping child in her arms and said thoughtfully, "_Makalaurë_."

"Makalaurë?" I echoed in surprise. Nelyafinwë sleepily raised his head from where he had been sleeping on my knee and muttered, "Gold."

"Yes, Nelya," Nerdanel said, voice more certain, "Gold--Forging Gold. Makalaurë. That is what I shall name him."

"Why?" I asked, looking lovingly at the infant Nerdanel held in her arms, knowing that mother-names were the names that pervaded truth and fate, "Will he be a smith?"

"No," she replied, "A bard. His voice shall be as bright as gold, as clear as the light of Laurelin. You will see."

I thought it strange, and was a little apprehensive of Nerdanel's certainty, but Makalaurë would remain as the name of my second child, and he would be true to his mother's prediction.

Author's Note:

Sorry, the end of the month was a little hectic, so no long-winded author's note this time (because I know you all look forward to this part of the chapter with the greatest of anticipation, haha). I won't go over my week in sordid detail, but let's just say being in charge of fourteen rowdy eight-year-old kids at summer camp is a pain. What do these children's parents feed them in the mornings? They were all adorable, but I'm so worn out that I had to type this sentence alone like eight times to get it out in a cohesive and legible manner.

Speaking of busy, **Mizamour**, I am so sorry that I rejected your invitation to be a staff member of your C2 community. I'm busy and incompetent. Please don't take it personally, I love you and your writing. You're an amazing author and you will do great as a C2 manager. I will be sure to visit the community regularly!

Anyways, I hope all of you aren't cross with me. :-)

Blodeuedd


	18. Chapter Eighteen: Skilled One

_Chapter Eighteen: Skilled One_

"Father, can I have a flute?" Makalaurë, now fifteen, stood in the doorway of my study, dark eyes earnest and somber.

"A flute?" I echoed, surprised, as I set my quill down. I had been writing the alphabet of Rúmil's script over and over, thinking of letters I myself was devising. It was a project that had been a focus of mine for the past few weeks, and I had seized the idleness of the evening to begin the task. "Why would you want such a thing? Kana, you make enough song with your own voice for ten flutes."

"I want to write music, and play songs." He fingered the doorframe, watching my face carefully.

My mind drifted for a moment, and I wrote down a letter of my own imagination--_malta_--and began thinking upon another.

"Father?" Makalaurë inquired, seeing my distance from the topic at hand.

I shook myself and looked back at my son. "Who gave you this idea?"

"Russandol." _Russandol_ was Makalaurë's nickname for his older brother.

"Has he been telling you stories again?" I almost smiled, but something kept me from it. Maitimo was fond of books and reading, and more often it was he, not Nerdanel or I, who told Makalaurë stories before they went to sleep.

"Yes. About the Teleri and their harps and flutes of silver."

I wrote down another letter--_ando_--and then said, "Well, I shall think upon it, my son. Now, I believe you have to go to your lessons with Maitimo and your mother." Nerdanel and I taught our children ourselves, and today it was Nerdanel's turn to teach.

"Yes, Father. Thank you." Makalaurë was gone almost at once, stealing like a shadow up the hall and I was left alone with my writing and my thoughts.

The reason I had not smiled at Makalaurë's mention of his older brother was because it seemed neither of them wished to take up the smithcraft that I loved so well. As Finwë was to pass the throne of the Noldor to me when he grew weary of the duty, I wished to pass my talent for the shaping of metals on to at least one of my sons. But as much and as dearly as I loved both my children, neither Maitimo nor Makalaurë showed any interest or desire in such a thing.

It hurt me when I saw the indifference in their eyes as I told them about the many things you could craft with a smith's talent, or the emancipation one felt when working in a dark forge in the bowels of the earth. They were polite about it, but they forgot the depth of my sight. Their thoughts told me their silently suppressed words of declination, even as they spoke aloud gracious promises designed to keep my persistence at bay until later.

"A booklover and a bard," I said ruefully to myself, glaring at the parchment before me, "Two sons already, but no smith."

I forced my mind away from the disheartening prospect and turned back to the letters--_formen_,_ ampa_, _tinco_,_ parma_--until evening fell.

An hour or so after the changing of the lights, Nerdanel, pregnant with our third child, came into the study, bearing a tray with a loaf of bread, mutton, and a goblet of mead.

"There you are," she exclaimed, "You missed dinner, you know."

"Dinner? What?" I looked up, mind bleary, and she smiled and shook her head.

"You would not turn from your work if the world was falling apart around you," she laughed, placing the tray on the table, then said in a more serious tone, "Eat. I will not have you starve. Besides, I need to get back to Nelya and Kana before they make a mess of the dining table with their games."

As I ate, she walked around the desk to my side, looking down at the strange letters I had written on the parchment sheets.

"_Lambe_, _esse_--What are you doing, Fëanáro?"

"Writing," I replied simply, shrugging. Nerdanel arched an eyebrow, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth again.

"If you insist it is so. I heard some things about Finwë's other children in the markets today," she continued, "Do you want to hear them?"

"Yes," I said immediately. While my interest in the children of Indis was one fueled by jealousy, I was also ever eager to hear anything about my father.

"Well, his fourth child, Arafinwë Ingalaurë, had his _Essecilmë_ a few weeks ago, and Nolofinwë is betrothed to the lady Anairë. I do not know when the wedding is."

"It matters not. We will not go. I will not have the children in _his _presence."

Nerdanel pursed her lips in frustration, as she often did when we discussed my father's other children. "Why, Fëanáro? Someday, they _will _meet. It shall happen sooner or later."

"Not until they are older," I declared firmly, "It is too much for them now." _And it will ever be too much for me_, a corner of my mind added.

"Very well," Nerdanel murmured pensively, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder.

Uncomfortable, I turned the conversation away from the subject of my half-brother. "Do you think it will be a daughter?"

Nerdanel knew what I was talking about, and laughed, her free hand resting protectively on her curved belly. "Perhaps. I am so familiar with raising sons now, though, I do not know what I would do." She straightened then, and moved to walk away. "I am going to sleep. Do not fall asleep at your work."

"Wait," I called after her, standing, as she turned to me, a smile on her face. "I am coming."

The next morning, I awoke to a familiar voice in my head.

_Wake, Curufinwë. Wake._

_Aulë?_ I asked feebly, trying to do as I was told, though the mires of sleep tugged at me. Nerdanel stirred in the circle of my arms, sensing my alertness.

_Yes, child_,Aulë responded, with his voice of boundless patience,_ I have returned. Come, there is much to be done before your apprenticeship can continue. _

_My father promised to have a forge built for me when you returned. . ._

_Let us go to him then, and see if that promise still stands._

Author's Note:

Another vexingly short chapter. Hope you're all managing to hang on!

**Mizamour**, you are welcome to put to the dialogue snippet from Chapter 17 in your favorite quotes. Thank you so much for your kindness and understanding.

**Ellfine**: You know, I don't know what to think about that issue either. Fëanor is the one who is subjected to all sorts of heartache and rage, but Finwë loves his son so much that he neither sees Fëanor's inevitable end coming nor does anything to prevent it. I'll leave it up to you, the readers, to decide who the most tragic figure is.

**Unsung Heroine**, I'm glad I've made Fëanor so sympathetic. He can be such an arrogant prick, even when portrayed in certain flattering lights. So your compliment is much, much appreciated.

**Anglachel**, good to hear from you again. I'm sure Nerdanel loves her children, yes, but seven is a few too many for me as well. I'd have trouble with all the names. :) I'm not even the boys' mother and I have trouble with their names, so I'd hate to see myself raising them. "Tyelkormo! Er, Carnistir! Or. . . oh, _whatever_ your name is, get over here!"

Thanks to all of you for being so kind and patient.

Love,

Blodeuedd


	19. Chapter Nineteen: Forgework

_Chapter Nineteen: Forgework_

Of course, Finwë was more than true to his word, and by the next year, to my delight and gratitude, a forge was built beside my home on the walls of Tirion. Also in that year, another son was born to Nerdanel and me, whom Nerdanel named Tyelkormo, Hasty Riser, and I named Turkafinwë, Strong Finwë.

He shared his dark hair with Makalaurë and me, but his grey eyes were Nerdanel's, though they had a passionate lust for life that his quiet, somber mother did not have. Tyelkormo was different from the rest of his family in many other ways as well. Unlike his older brothers, he was a demanding and impatient child, and Nerdanel alone could not tend to him. Often it took all four of us to get our youngest family member into a happy mood. It was a fortunate thing that once Tyelkormo was content, he remained thus for a long while.

I spent what time I could with my three growing sons and my wife, but many of my hours were spent working slavishly in my forge.

My first formal undertaking in my new forge was a flute for Makalaurë. I knew that if my work in the forge pertained to the arts of music, my second son's interest would be caught.

Indeed, for one of the few times ever in our lives, Makalaurë spent the greater part of his time with me in the forge, watching me work, asking questions. With the aid of Aulë, I made Makalaurë a small, exquisite silver flute, with golden workings upon its delicate shaft.

When I finally presented it to him on the morning of his sixteenth birthday, the boy was clearly enchanted.

"Oh! It is lovely!" He exclaimed, sounding as surprised as if he had not been watching me work on it over my shoulder for the past month.

"Is it fit for your needs?" I asked, smiling proudly.

Makalaurë's hand hovered over the instrument, but he seemed afraid to take it.

"It is perfect," he assured me with fervency, "It is _more_ than perfect. At first--" Makalaurë hesitated, his soft eyes looking up at me askance through his dark, curling bangs. "At first, I thought you would not make it for me. I thought you believed I was silly to want such a thing. Do you think it is childish of me to play music?"

"No, of course not, Kana," I promised him, fondly ruffling his hair, forgetting my earlier thoughts. "Whatever you shall do with your life will bring your mother and me only honor and pride."

"Really?"

"Yes, my son."

"Good. I do not like to play rough games and chase dogs," Makalaurë declared, wrinkling his nose in disdain. "I would like to play music instead."

I laughed. "Very well. Play your music, if it is your wish."

"Thank you, Father!" He cried, delighted, and started to scamper off, flute clutched delicately in both hands.

"Kana?"

"Yes?" Makalaurë halted, turning to look at me again with curious eyes.

"I will always be proud of you."

Afterwards, he carried the thing with him wherever he went. He read no written music with it, but played tunes that he abruptly improvised at strange times in the day. I once even caught him at midnight, sitting by the window in his room, flute gleaming in the starlight as he played a few haunting notes.

Aside from the dainty flute, I made other things as well. I began work on glassblowing and made numerous vases and sculptures for my house. I made so many that soon Nerdanel commanded me to start selling them or giving them as gifts to anyone who had the misfortune of dropping by in search of a simple favor or the answer for a question. I also insisted on shoeing all the horses in the stable myself.

Sometimes, to prove I was free of obligation, I even worked without Aulë's aid as I had when making my engagement rings, proving my independence of even the most constant of masters. I was proud to find my work without Aulë's assistance was equal to, if not better than, the works that I made with the help of the Vala.

Finwë visited us more often now, to see his three grandchildren, but luckily he never brought Nolofinwë again. Indeed, we heard only rare of my father's other children, except mentioned offhandedly, and my heart was comforted that so much of his time and love was spent upon me.

The news of the _Essecilmë _of Finwë's second son and the betrothal of Nolofinwë were not the last of the tidings we were to receive about Indis' children during those years. Nolofinwë was wed, and I declined the invitation my family and I received to the marriage, but the very next year we heard that the Lady Anairë had given birth to their first child, a son named Findekáno.

That was not the last marriage in the family--later in the year, Findis was married to a Noldorin courtier, Nandaro.

However, I managed to keep my family out of the events--we kept to ourselves, and I permitted few family members to visit, and then only out of courtesy.

In the springtime of the year that Tyelkormo turned three, Aulë came to me with surprising news as we worked in the forge one night. We were working together on a cauldron, and the night was growing late.

Often, we would speak as we worked; Aulë took almost as much interest in my children as their grandfather did, and I, of course, was never hesitant to seize an opportunity to proudly tell of my children's deeds and achievements.

_Maitimo is so mature for his age. We left him at home with his brothers the other day, when Nerdanel and I went to market. When we returned, he had Makalaurë and Tyelkormo at his feet with his stories. He had even made them a snack to tide them over until dinner. Makalaurë, of course, hardly requires extensive attention now. I think it is the music that has made him mature so quickly. He truly is gifted, Aulë. He can keep a whole ballad in his head for weeks at a time, until he has a passing moment to write it down. Nerdanel and I have taught him nothing of what he knows about music--nothing! And yet he is already the equal of my father's bards. _

_And Tyelkormo? _Aulë asked, his silent and curious voice audible even over the clang of my hammer.

_He looks so much like me_, I declared proudly. _And he has a temper and a pride to equal mine thrice over. He grows quickly, too. I was right to name him as I did; it seems he grows more with each night. I think he will even catch up to tall Maitimo in about ten or twenty years. Makalaurë was always short, but Maitimo is like a young tree. He is very like his littlest brother in that way--_

_Pay attention! Those seams should be watertight_, Aulë chided me.

I paused and glanced down at my work, and hammered the seam in question so that the sheets of rapidly cooling iron overlapped neatly.

"There," I said aloud, satisfied.

_Do not grow too arrogant_,Aulë warned gently. _Especially with what is to come. _

_What is to come? _

Aulë gave an amused, noiseless sigh. _You are too cunning for me to slip anything by, as usual. Very well-- Curufinwë, I have reason to believe that soon you shall sense a--a blossoming, if you will, of your talent. Because of your growing skill, you shall be able to make great works of beauty and splendor, works that shall make the finest craftsmen in Arda envious of your gift._

_Truly?_

_Would I lie to you, Curufinwë? All I say to you is this: I will not help you during that time--_

_But you just came back! _I interrupted, dismayed, nearly dropping the tongs which held the cauldron on its side.

_You will not need me. The works you fashion will be entirely of your own devising._

_But then how am I supposed to--_

_Fear not. _

I was not placated at all by this, but there was a finality in Aulë's silent tones. Even if I had wanted to protest further, it was too late; there was an emptiness in my head that told me the Vala had left me for the night. Dismayed, I waited impatiently for the cauldron to cool, then set it in a corner.

Head buzzing with the disturbing notion of being left by my tutor, I doused the forge fire and exited the forge. Weary as I was, it took me hours to fall asleep.


	20. Chapter Twenty: The Hunter

_Chapter Twenty: The Hunter_

True to Aulë's words, in the years to come, I noticed a sudden growth in my skills. A curiosity burned to life in me, a sudden desire to see how far I could go, how much I could do. I began working in the forge more often, making candleholders, goblets, nails, flesh forks, horseshoes, and so many other things.

Time, place, memory became meaningless when I did this. So long as I had eyes to see and hands to hold, I cared little for anything other than the heat of the forge and the realization of my desires.

Proud of my work despite my protests, Finwë spread word of my skill among the people of Valinor. Soon Eldar--Noldor, Vanyar, and Teleri alike--came from far and near to my forge. They asked so many different favors of my forge; at times, it felt like the most I could do simply to remember them all. An argent belt for Olwë, several flutes for the Teleri, a circlet for Onótimo, a brooch for Ingwë's wife. And their requests I fulfilled, to the best of my ability, until the words of praise were even from the mouths of the Valar themselves.

But, amazingly, I grew weary of the mundane work of metalcraft. Such a thing had seemed impossible even to me, and now I had no idea of what to do with myself.

I spent many nights now looking up at the stars, wondering how I might replicate, if not better, their crystalline beauty. My mind turned to the making of jewels, and I started gathering diamonds, clear and shot through with the light of Telperion, blood-red garnets and rubies, sapphires, opals, pale moonstones and purple amethysts together, studying their beauty.

I could spend hours only watching how the light shone through their translucent depths, how the facets and curves shone in the glow of the Trees, how they had been shaped by the patient, loving hands of the earth. Staring into their sparkling cores, I was filled with a unknown sensation of emptiness, a poignant something that pervaded every corner of my mind even as I struggled to give it a name.

Above all else, I planned and planned, deciding, altering, and always thinking.

When I could, I tried not to forget my family. It pained and stunned me when I realized that I had been practically living in the forge for stretches of time, and then I would leave the place of shadows and flame for the comforts of my home with desperate fervor.

Maitimo had come of age long ago, and was now a sober, handsome young man. It had since become clear to me that his mind and heart were like Nerdanel's in their quiet contemplations and slow but deliberate actions. However, he also knew--perhaps too well--the obligations of a firstborn son to his father, and often followed me loyally in decisions and deeds, even though it was painfully clear to me that his own opinions and morals told him otherwise. Despite his serene, dark beauty and subtle wit, Maitimo remained unwed. He dwelt still in our house upon Tirion's walls, watching over his brothers and doing odd chores when Nerdanel and I had need of his assistance.

Dark little Makalaurë had also recently come of age, but remained the silent, somber bard he had ever been, preferring to learn the arts of harp and flute in solitude than to meet with the many young people of the city.

But despite Makalaurë's deep passion for music above all else and his peers' general opinion of his awkward shyness, he was often visited by Márlindë, the young niece of Quennar Onótimo. She played no instrument but loved only to sing. And rightly—the girl had a voice as gentle and sweet as the dew that rested upon the flowers of Laurelin.

Makalaurë composed many songs for her to sing, some ornate and wild, others quiet and tender. The works were earnestly kept secret until the days when she came by the house. Any violations of this unwritten rule were harshly punished with hours of ranting from our young bard. But by the time Márlindë arrived, he would always collect himself and once again become the quiet, meek thing he usually was.

Then he would accompany her on his harp or flute for hours, and our house would be filled with the wondrous sounds. There was little doubt on either my or Nerdanel's part that Márlindë and Makalaurë were very much in love, and would soon ask for our permission to marry.

Tyelkormo was everything his older brothers were not.

A quick-tempered, sharp-tongued young man who had no qualms about voicing his mind, he often left home with his horse and hounds to hunt in the woods of Oromë, one of the Valar, who also loved the thrills of the chase and kill. He was a fast friend with the Vala, and Oromë had long promised Tyelkormo a hound from his own fine pack, though he had taken long because he wanted to be sure his friend received only the best of whelps.

Tyelkormo was easily the most difficult of our elder children. Stubborn and headstrong, he shunned all parental affection and advice, seeking to find his own solutions and answers to the obstacles he faced. While this independence was welcome after the sometimes taxing emotional demands of the more vulnerable and emotive Maitimo and Makalaurë, we were often stung by his sharp rebukes.

Only a few years earlier, Nerdanel had given birth to another son, Morifinwë Carnistir, who was still only a baby, but already possessed of a temperament which spoke volumes about the passionate and fierce man he would become.

Our house was now filled with the laughter and tears of four children, and we loved them with all our hearts and cared for them as best we could, but I often saw a gleam in Nerdanel's eye that spoke of the three more children to come.

One day, in the late summer of the year, a messenger came to our home, inviting us to the wedding of Arafinwë son of Finwë to Eärwen daughter of Lord Olwë of the Teleri. I was at first loath to accept, but Makalaurë, fed up of missing weddings filled with music and dance simply because of my deep-seated prejudices, interfered the moment he saw the refusal appear in my eyes.

"Please, Father!" He begged, setting down his harp and looking ready to kneel at my feet.

"It will be boring," groaned Tyelkormo from his seat on the hearth. He was throwing anything he could get his hands on into the fire to watch it burn, and was eyeing a sheet of Makalaurë's music too closely for his older brother's comfort."Who wants to see a silly wedding? It is only fussing and kissing and wine. I will die of boredom." Makalaurë, glaring despairingly at his younger brother, snatched his music up into an awkward pile, setting it out of Tyelkormo's reach, then returned his pleading gaze to me.

"Fëanáro. . ." Nerdanel said in a voice that told me not to refuse, jerking her head toward Makalaurë's sad eyes.

"Very well," I sighed, and turned to the messenger. "I accept." The messenger left, eyes nervously darting back at my resigned, sullen expression.

"Remind me never to marry," Tyelkormo told Carnistir, observing the authority Nerdanel had briefly flourished over me with a wry grin. Carnistir, ever eager to please Tyelkormo, nodded solemnly.

In autumn, we rode to Alqualondë for the wedding.

Makalaurë was beside himself with delight at the music of the Teleri that echoed along the shores of the Sea. Tyelkormo, however, was off hunting in the woods nearby. He had wanted to not go to the wedding at all, but Nerdanel and I had made him promise he would return during the feast, before the actual wedding ceremony, to remain courteous.

The feast was lavish, and the halls of Olwë were filled with people. My family was separated almost at once. Nerdanel, with young Carnistir at her side, had gone to talk with some relatives of her mother who were attending the marriage as well. Maitimo had gone with an eager Makalaurë to see the musicians, leaving me to wander among the people alone.

I recognized many faces, but spoke to few. I often saw Nolofinwë in the throng, with a tall young man I assumed was his son Findekáno, and two infant sons and an even younger daughter, who remained in his wife's arms. I avoided the sight of them, and hoped to do so with the rest of Indis' children, though I had heard my father himself was here, to conduct part of the wedding ceremony of his third son.

The feast wore sluggishly on, and I began to wonder where Tyelkormo was. My third son was, by nature, late to many occasions, but this far exceeded his earlier delays. At last, impatient and irked that my son would deliberately shirk an occasion were the rest of his family was present--and also irritated that I myself should suffer the tedious monotony of this event alone--I sought out Maitimo, and Makalaurë. After almost having to pull Makalaurë bodily away from the musicians, I gathered the three together.

"Have any of you seen your brother?" I asked them.

Maitimo, seeing the opportunity for mirth, grinned and asked innocently, "Which brother, dear father?"

"Tyelkormo!" I replied brusquely. Sobering, Maitimo shook his head. "No. I thought he was hunting."

"He has no respect!" I snapped, "His grandfather is here!"

"He is also missing quite a lovely duet," Makalaurë remarked, in the half-aware, distant way he had of speaking in the presence of music.

Maitimo laughed and took Makalaurë by the arm. "We had best get Kana back to the music before he begins to pine," he told me, "Good luck finding Tyelkormo."

I waved them off, and began making for the door, ridding myself of any who tried to speak to me with a hasty excuse. After what felt like years, I reached the outside.

Alqualondë was set near the Sea, and the voices of the Teleri echoed along the white, starlit shores as their swan-like ships glided across the still waters of the Bay. The shoreline nearby was brief and made of round, glistening stones that were black and smooth from many years of waves, gentle but able to bend the shore to their will after so long. I ran my eyes up and down the beaches, and over the rolling hills nearby, but I saw no sign of Tyelkormo.

Exasperated by my son's belatedness and already planning his chastisement, I turned to go back inside--and came face to face with Findis, who stood in the doorframe. I stiffened as if she were some deadly predator, for I had no mixed emotions when it came to the eldest of my younger half-sisters. I had grown to resent her more and more over the years, and had hoped to avoid her along with Nolofinwë at this accursed wedding.

However Findis smiled her curtly polite, reserved smile and said, "Brother. I had not expected to meet you here."

Any other people watching us might have wondered why I was acting like a stag trapped by wolves; Findis was beautiful, dressed in a fine gown of blue brocaded with golden thread, her dark hair ornately braided. Her face spoke only of faintly condescending pity and indulging a quick-tempered, unstable older brother in his strange ways. But I had known her too long and too well, and while she was not perfect like Nolofinwë, she irked me terribly by just _being_.

"May I introduce you to my husband, Nandaro, and his niece, Alalmë?" She was asking, though it seemed not at all like a request--more like a command. I heard the familiar sounds of hoofbeats and the baying of many hounds from up the beach and turned around.

Indeed, it was Tyelkormo, abysmally late and seemingly enjoying every moment of it. He was riding into the wind, dark hair streaming behind him and an expression of absolute delight on his face as he spurred his horse in and out of the dancing waves. His faithful pack of nine hounds, which Nerdanel and I had given him for his fortieth birthday, flowed behind him effortlessly, their long, shaggy grey legs only a flicker of movement as they darted effortlessly alongside the horse of their master. With further shock, I noticed he had not changed out of his simple hunting garb. And that was only the beginning of my horror--he still had his javelin in hand, long hunting knife at his belt, and his quiver of arrows and longbow upon his saddle.

Findis must have heard my teeth grinding, or seen my expression of horrified anger, for she unseasonably remarked, "Is that one of your sons? He is rather plainly dressed for a wedding. . ."

By this time, Tyelkormo had seen me, and seemed reluctant to pull his horse at a halt in the dooryard of the house, but he did so, dismounting with a look of dread on his face.

"Father," he muttered, bowing his head, but clamping the long haft of his javelin tightly as though he would fight hard to keep it at his side. I did not know if I would be able to stop myself from trying.

"My son," I said in return, then hissed so no one else could hear, "We will speak of this later."

He swallowed, paler than usual, and nodded, motioning to a groom to take his horse. Findis politely overlooked our evident disagreement and repeated her introduction to her husband Nandaro, who was a dark, slender Noldo with a ready smile that I did not return.

"And this is my niece by marriage, Alalmë," she told us, gesturing to a dark-eyed girl who stood behind her in the doorframe. Alalmë smiled kindly enough, but seemed as lovely and shy as a star behind a cloud--she seemed unable to meet Tyelkormo's eyes, and only briefly gazed into mine. She was dark-haired and flawlessly fair-skinned like her uncle, though her hair was unbound or covered, for she was apparently unmarried. While she did not cling to her aunt's side like a child, she seemed uncertain. Findis saw this and laughed.

"She is often flightier than this--I think your son is too tall!"

Alalmë's cheeks colored slightly, but she turned her fair face away and said nothing, an ashamed smile playing on her lips.

"Well, I shall not keep you," I said with a sincerity so false it nearly dripped mockery, though Findis and her kin either chose to ignore it or heard it not at all, clamping one hand around Tyelkormo's wrist.

"The wedding ceremony is soon. Leave your javelin at the door," I added in an undertone to my son, and he unwillingly did so. Tyelkormo seemed almost reluctant to go, but I was adamant in my decision to get Findis out of my sight. In those days, so brief and unknowing, I thought that it was only his lance that my son was loath to leave.

Nerdanel joined us as we entered the room, Carnistir clapping his small hands with joy when he saw his older brother.

"'Kormo!" He begged emphatically, arms outstretched to Tyelkormo until the older boy lifted him in his arms. Carnistir laughed with more delight, and tugged at his brother's long, night-black hair adoringly. Tyelkormo laughed as well, holding his brother close. The two shared a loving bond that they did not expend with their other siblings.

"Where are the others?" Nerdanel asked me, eyes straying nervously to Carnistir as Tyelkormo held him over his head, both laughing as though it were the finest jest in the world. "Watch his head, Turkafinwë!"

"He likes it--see how he laughs!" Tyelkormo protested.

"Makalaurë and Maitimo are watching the musicians, I think," I replied to Nerdanel.

Indeed, we found them still by the alcove where the music emerged. Makalaurë had his eyes closed, his face ecstatic, hands clenched in fists at his sides as if to keep them from robbing a bard of his instrument and playing his own tune. Maitimo watched his brother impatiently, fidgeting.

Nerdanel beckoned, and they came, Makalaurë looking as if he had awakened from a deep sleep, and wished to return to his dreams.

Suddenly, all was still, and a fanfare of clarion trumpets announced the beginning of the ceremony. As one, the guests went into the audience chamber, taking seats in the enormous hall, their conversation subdued but not entirely stilled.

As we took our seats, towards the back, Nerdanel smiled and squeezed my hand. "Does this remind you of anything?" She asked quietly.

I smiled back and nodded, giving her a quick kiss. "I love you."

"And I you," she replied fervently, her eyes only on me, hand still resting in mine.

"_Mother. . ._" Tyelkormo groaned, looking sickened, and Nerdanel nudged her son playfully.

"Wait until you fall in love," she chided him.

Tyelkormo snorted derisively, and looked at his mother disbelievingly but with a trace of amusement, as though she had just somberly told him fish could fly. "Never!"

There was then much stifled laughter, shoving, and whispering between the usually solemn Matimo and Makalaurë, until Tyelkormo looked scandalized and refused to speak to anyone but Carnistir, who beamed at his older brother's every word anyhow, as though each thought that left Tyelkormo's mouth was a rare gift.

"Hush," Nerdanel interrupted, seeing that the game among the other sons was going too far, "Leave your brother alone. The wedding is about to begin."

True to her words, the bride and bridegroom emerged upon the dais, girt in their finest raiment and looking resplendently in love. I eyed Arafinwë appraisingly, having not seen my youngest half-brother this closely before. He was even fairer than Nolofinwë, with flaxen hair that was so light it was nearly white, and with a face far handsomer than most. But he was slight, and I doubted he could wield a hammer or control an untamed stallion, as I was certain I myself could, and probably Nolofinwë as well.

His bride, Eärwen, was as pale as her husband, but her hair was a radiant shade of silver, and her face was purely built of Telerin blood--she had elegant cheekbones and delicate features, rather than the intense, passionate beauty that was so eminent in Nerdanel and, though less so, in other Noldorin women.

I felt a pang of envy when I saw Finwë standing with Arafinwë on the dais and saying the same words he had said for Nerdanel and me, but nursed the wound in silence. The wedding seemed longer observed rather than experienced, but at last we were free to return to the other chamber, to talk and eat further if we would, but I planned on leaving.

My sons begged otherwise, so Nerdanel and I let them scatter among the guests for a time. Maitimo was the last to return, talking animatedly to an Elda younger than himself even as I motioned for him to go. When the other turned to go, I saw that it was Findekáno, and my heart went cold.

_My eldest son was consorting with a child of Nolofinwë?_

Furious, but terrified for no reason I could see, I made my way to Maitimo. "Come, Maitimo, it is time to go," I told him evenly, fighting to keep my voice calm.

Findekáno glanced at me, and then returned his gaze to my face in the form of a stare. "Fëanáro Curufinwë is your _father_?" Conflicting emotion was evident in his voice.

Maitimo looked ill at ease. "Well--he--I--" He stammered.

"Maitimo," I warned quietly, "We are leaving _now._"

"If you would go, I shall let you," Findekáno said diplomatically, giving me a curt, anxious nod. His face was too much like his father's for my taste, though his hair was darker.

Maitimo, torn, gave me a baleful glare that chilled my marrow, but followed me away. When we were some distance away from Findekáno and headed for the door, he glanced back into the throng and asked me in a cold voice, "Why did you do that?"

"He was a son of Nolofinwë," I replied, sounding as if it justified everything. And it did, in my mind then.

"Father, sometimes you--" Maitimo cut himself off as we came to the doorway, where outside Nerdanel and the rest of the family waited, but his words were too sharp for me to ignore.

"Sometimes I _what_?"

"Nothing," Maitimo stuttered nervously, and in his eyes I could see he was disciplining himself sternly for his defiant rebelliousness.

"Very well." I walked out of the house and mounted my horse, but as I rode homeward with my wife and children in silence, I could not help but think that on that day I had nearly lost two of my children to unruliness.

Author's Note:

I guess you all are on vacation. . . only one review last week. A hearty thank you, **Mizamour**! But hey, no hard feelings: I'm not one to moan over a lack of reviews (most of the time). If you haven't read my profile in a bit, I myself will be taking a break during the week of July 23-30. While I will not post anything in that time, know that, aside from my original fiction pursuits, I will definitely be laboring over some sort of fanwork for you:-)

Enjoy the last month or so of summer!

Blodeuedd


	21. Chapter TwentyOne: Márlindë

_Chapter Twenty-one: Márlindë_

I would soon learn that weddings are infectious things, when the time is right.

In the winter of that year, Márlindë and Makalaurë did indeed come to us, seeking for our consent for them to marry. Nerdanel and I needed to take little counsel from each other to agree. Both of us savored the gratitude and enthusiastic thanks of the two, blended with our own fond memories and lasting love.

However, amid the happiness that seemed to fill our house, I grew uneasy that a son other than my firstborn should be first to marry.

One night, as I sat with Maitimo outside after dinner, trying to find constellations, I felt as if the time were right to voice my concern.

"Does it trouble you that your little brother is betrothed, when you are not?"

Maitimo was silent for a long time, so silent that I thought at first he had not heard my question--or was refusing to answer. The only sound was the delighted shrieks of Tyelkormo and Carnistir chasing after each other in the long grass, their silhouettes blotting out the waning golden light sporadically as they ran, laughing, through the shadows.

My youngest son, Curufinwë Atarinkë, born in the autumn of the year before, toddled shyly to his eldest brother, chubby arms outstretched. Maitimo quickly acceded to the little boy's babbled demands and lifted his brother into his lap, jostling the child with his knee until Curufinwë giggled and insistently jabbered for more. Unable to resist his amusement even as I waited for an answer, I ruffled Curufinwë's dark, curling hair with a soft laugh of affection.

"No--and yes, I suppose," Maitimo admitted at last, looking at me with his sad, thoughtful eyes over Curufinwë's head. "But maybe I am not meant for love."

"That may be," I agreed. "But what keeps you from marriage?"

"I cannot say. Something pulls me away from it--I love no woman. I do not think I ever will. I must sound like an idiot," he shrugged, looking away, "Marriage is a custom, an indispensable practicality. It is wrong for me to refuse it."

"You love no one at all?" I pressed on, surprised by this new facet of my eldest son.

"Well, I always will love you, and my brothers, and Mother. And, well--" He hesitated, brow furrowed, looking just as he had as a child, when he had been on the verge of divulging some important information.

"Russandol," Makalaurë called from the doorway. "I need you to help me with cleaning up the table. Mother said."

Maitimo looked at me, his expression wistful for a moment, then grinned weakly as he stood to follow his brother. "I had better go."

I said nothing, but my eyes followed my oldest son as he made his way to the door, his shadow tall and dark behind him.

That night, Carnistir stayed with me in the forge, merely watching me work or assisting me when he could. As we were fire-welding two billets of iron and steel together, Carnistir working the bellows, he suddenly remarked, "Love must be in the water or the air. It is getting to everyone in the house. Makalaurë, Tyelkormo. . ."

I was so startled that I almost overlooked the white sparks flying from the billets as they began to burn.

"Tyelkormo?" I repeated disbelievingly as I took the tongs and whisked the billets away from the fires onto the anvil. Carnistir's face was hard to see in the dimness of the forge, after I had gazed into the white heart of the flames for so long, but I saw his shadowy head nod. "Quickly, the hammer, Morifinwë , before they cool!" I instructed impatiently.

"Have you not noticed?" He asked as he put down the bellows and, as I had ordered, reached for a long-handled hammer to strike the pieces of metal, welding them together.

"No. . .Watch your hand!" I lifted the now-joined pieces with the tongs and put them back into the forge before they could cool. Carnistir stepped away from the glowing metal cautiously. "Tyelkormo is a hunter, not a lover," I remarked, stoking the fire once more.

Carnistir flashed a grin and shook his head. "That is only what you believe." He handed me a bag of the silver sand I used to act as a flux, and looked on as I sprinkled it over the weld.

"You honestly have not seen how different he is?" My son asked as I dragged the iron and steel out of the forge once more, hammering them together again, this time forever. I shook my head.

"He seems the same," I muttered, eyes on my work.

"Mark my words, he is in love. He told me so," Carnistir boasted proudly.

"He told _you_?" I was a little confused that Tyelkormo would choose a younger brother for this news, close as he was to Carnistir. Carnistir beamed, watching me reshape the iron and steel.

"He made me swear not to tell. But I had to tell you. You ought to know, Father."

"Indeed," I muttered, amused. I still could not bring myself to believe it. Tyelkormo, the only son of mine who had so fervently and openly shunned love, now found in the throes of the very emotion he had so eschewed? "Who is this maiden he loves so dearly, if you know so much?"

Carnistir shrugged, smile faltering. "He never said. He just came back into our room around midnight, and I asked him why he was awake at that hour. And he told me, 'Brother, I am in love.' Just like that. He sounded drunk, if you ask me." His laughing dark eyes waited to calculate my surprise--one of his many mischievous habits.

"Your brother would sooner beat his hounds and break his spears before he would let himself be drunk, Carnistir," I reprimanded sharply. "But really--he came back at midnight?"

Tyelkormo sneaking out? At night? It was something that I would think maybe Carnistir capable of, but never Tyelkormo. He was always telling us when he would be away, for what purpose, and when to expect him back. Of course, he was always late anyhow, but at least he tried his best to keep us informed.

"Around midnight. Telperion's light was at its fullest. Are you going to tell Mother? Will you be angry?" He hesitated, and the worry for his brother's sake was tangible in the stifling air.

"No. Not yet, anyway." I needed time to consider this. I set down the newly welded iron and steel, considered it for a moment, then picked it up with the tongs, tossed it into the corner with the other metals waiting to be melted down again, and removed my leather apron.

"Father, what are you doing? We still need to--"

"No. It is imperfect," I told him. "We were talking needlessly, and did not focus on the task at hand.

"Imperfect? Why should we leave it be when we could fix it? The metal has not cooled yet!" My son exclaimed in dismay, looking shocked by my fastidious eye.

"I do not want to work anymore," I replied simply. Though Carnistir's face plainly said he wanted to continue working, he did not protest.

I never really seemed to have time to speak with Tyelkormo about what his brother had told me, for Makalaurë's wedding was near and much had to be done.

When I myself had been one of the couple to be wed, I had never realized that there was so much the parents needed to do. I had almost no time for anything but writing invitations and making preparations with Nerdanel, who was far more patient with the work. The arrangements was dreary toiling in my eyes, but my happiness for my second son overcame most of my irritation with the tedious exertions.

The only time when there was much of an interlude in the monotony was when my wife and I came to the matter of whether to invite my half-kin. Nerdanel persisted that courtesy should overrule whatever differences we had, but I felt that the further away Indis' children were, the better we would be for it.

In the end, Nerdanel won, though she compromised that I did not have to be an ever-present host to my brothers and sisters, and that she would tend to their needs when she could.

Márlindë spent more and more time in our house, until she became an integral part of the family even before the wedding. She was always in high spirits, with a kind or affectionate word for every member of the family. Seeing Makalaurë with her assured me that even inviting Nolofinwë to their wedding would be a sacrifice I was willing to make. And so the day of Makalaurë's marriage neared, both a gift and an anxiety to us all.

"Hold still, Makalaurë, I _told _you not to fidget!" Maitimo commanded his younger brother, trying to adjust the circlet that ran about Makalaurë's brow. Makalaurë grimaced, but held still for his older brother, though his eyes were troubled.

"I am sorry, Russandol," he muttered, eyes darting everywhere but his brother's face, "I am trying to think of what I am going to play during the feast. And on what instrument? I have no _idea_ what Márlindë was thinking, asking me to perform. I think the harp is best, because I will be short of breath on the flute--but what if my hands shake? Maybe the flute is better. No, my hands will shake on the keys anyhow. Maybe I had better--What about the songs? The song I wrote for Márlindë is too long--"

Tyelkormo hummed the tune of the song in question, its loveliness made comical by his shaky grasp of music and interspersions of laughter.

"Shut _up_, Turko!" Makalaurë snapped furiously, "I would like to see you write better!"

"He is afraid. . ." Carnistir lazily put in from the corner.

"I am _not_!" Makalaurë anxiously seethed at Carnistir in a way that said otherwise.

"Hush, all of you!" Nerdanel's voice could have frozen the liveliest of waters; all her sons ceased to move or talk. "This is Makalaurë's special day. You would do well not to ruin it."

It was suddenly very quiet as all the brothers colored in shame and looked at anything but their mother's face. Nerdanel seemed to have a flair for gentle scolding, and it did her a world of good as a mother of five unruly sons.

"Is all ready?" I asked her. Nerdanel had been left in charge of arranging everything on the actual day of Makalaurë's wedding, and because of the lack of problems occurring from outside the family I knew she was doing her task as best she could. She nodded as she smoothed Makalaurë's gray tunic, then stood on tiptoe to kiss her son.

"All will be well," she assured him, suddenly kind. "Márlindë loves you, and that is all that matters."

Tyelkormo, suddenly quiet and solemn, did not have the boldness to contradict his mother, as he was so wont to do on the matter of love, but only watched the scene with impatient eyes, restless in the fine raiment he reluctantly wore.

The silence lasted until Nerdanel left the room, when Carnistir looked ducked his head out the window and declared in a resigned but nonetheless loud voice, "The guests are coming!"

An onslaught of words from four mouths was quick to follow--five, if the gleeful shrieks of a gaily-dressed Curufinwë were included.

"Who?"

"So early?"

"You dull-witted fool, they came in good time!"

"Be quiet, Tyelkormo! How would you know what promptness is anyhow? You would be late for your own nameday!"

I sighed and let the din carry on. Despite his differences, each brother was quick to know and sympathize with the emotions of his siblings. Even Makalaurë and Carnistir, perhaps the most dissimilar of the brothers, would be able to react similarly if one of them was provoked to strong emotion. So somehow, all five of my sons were tied together, for good or ill, for sorrow or joy. I could let them carry on for as long as they would, for all of us knew that in the end their arguments would finish off well and without sore feelings.

When Márlindë appeared among us, magnificent in her white gown hemmed in gold, her presence was like a balm. Most of the unease that the other brothers had detected in Makalaurë, and had reacted so strongly to, was soothed. She curtsied politely to me, and then went straight for Makalaurë.

"Are you well, Kana?" She asked him.

Makalaurë, suddenly unruffled and resilient before his bride, nodded. The way Márlindë's face glowed reminded me of Nerdanel's. With a silent, almost embarrassed smile, the girl took Makalaurë's hand in hers, and glided--that was the only word for it--from the room. Slowly and just as silently, my other sons followed behind.

Maitimo, last to leave, let out a long breath, giving me the impression he had been holding it for a while. As I moved to go as well, trying to remember the words I had to say at the wedding ceremony, I heard my eldest son whisper to himself, in a voice as soft as snow falling, "Goodbye, Kana."

The rest of the day went nearly perfectly, though I was hard-pressed to keep myself from shedding tears as I said the last few words of the ceremony: "Let it be so."

Even though I knew Makalaurë was not leaving me forever, I felt as though he were.

I found myself already missing his rich, sweet bard's voice, and wondering how empty our house would seem with no Makalaurë to play his flute or his harp for hours on end, until all the rest of us were mad from the beautiful but nonetheless incessant noise. My mingled sorrow and joy for my second son was enough to keep me from feeling anything else. I did not care when I saw Nolofinwë enter the feast hall, with his equally perfect three children and wife, nor when I saw Maitimo at once go to Findekáno's side as if drawn there by a thread. His treachery was only a pinprick in my oblivious heart.

I found solace in speaking with Finwë throughout the night, though my mind was elsewhere as I spoke, for I wondered if, when Finwë had married me to Nerdanel, he too had felt the excruciating yet magnificent rending of his heart that I now both suffered and enjoyed.

Author's Note:

Sorry, no responses to reviews this week--I'm hosting family for the next three days and this window of time I've managed to snatch is passing quickly. So thanks in advance and I promise I'll get back to you next week!

Love always,

Blodeuedd


	22. Chapter TwentyTwo: The Twins

_Chapter Twenty-two: The Twins_

Though our house did seem unusually quiet without Makalaurë and his songs, the years still passed, unpredictable despite their infinite recurrences and coincidences.

In time, Nerdanel was again expecting, and the light in her eyes seemed brighter than ever, as if she saw the character of the child within her and she was pleased and content. However, this time it seemed that giving birth to five other children had taken its toll. Her steps were slow and often heavier than before, and, though she glowed with delight, her appearance was careless and disheveled. Maybe it was that this pregnancy was difficult. Perhaps her dream of having seven children was losing its momentum.

But in any case Nerdanel was often weary, regardless of her odd and seemingly sourceless joy. She depended on us to do most of the chores she was wont to call her own. Because of the new tasks I was temporarily assigned, I was only able to go to my forge in the late hours of the night, and those early hours of the morning.

On one such night, as I was stumbling, half-asleep, through the dooryard of our house from the forge, squinting into the darkness, I heard the sound of advancing footsteps on the ground.

Cautious as I naturally was from years of living with a family that was not my own, I hid myself in the shadows of the house. For some strange reason, my heart was pounding hard in my throat, as though some doom were about to befall my family. Thoughts, all of them fierce and frightened, whipped through my head like a flock of startled birds, but I tried to keep a clear head as I peered from the gloom at the two advancing figures.

The starlight fell on the taller one's face, and I saw it was Tyelkormo, his face oddly peaceful, his eyes holding a strange confidence as he gazed up at the sky. Why was he out so late, without my knowledge?

Holding back the loud, reproachful words that instantly rose to my lips on a father's instinct, I struggled to remember what Carnistir had told me about his older brother.

_He just came back into our room around midnight. . ._ _And he told me, "Brother, I am in love. . ."_

_In love?_

That was it.

As the pieces began to fall together in my mind, I turned my eyes to the slighter shadow walking beside Tyelkormo. Though the light of Telperion shadowed the face of my son's companion, I recognized the delicate gait of a woman. But strain my eyes as I might, I could not see who she was.

This discovered, I turned my attention to the conversation. I felt a twinge of guilt, prying into my son's business so, but my interest in the matter and the fatherly pride that Tyelkormo had found someone to love, was too much to pass this by. Besides, if I were to leap out of the shadows, I would both frighten them and be the recipient of my son's shamed but nevertheless famously fiery anger. Better for me to stay here, until they parted ways or left.

For a long while Tyelkormo and the girl were silent. The stillness buzzed in my ears until I feared that they had discovered my presence.

But then the girl raised her silhouetted face to look at Tyelkormo. The profile seemed familiar, and tugged at my memory, but I let the thought be, engrossed in the moment.

"Do you know what time it is?" She asked Tyelkormo, voice seeming to smile on its own.

Tyelkormo shook his head, and I was surprised at the innocent love in every line of his face. There was a beautiful freshness to it, as though he were yet unused to the feeling, as if the emotion were some strange wine.

"I do not care to know," he replied, voice sincere as he took the maid's hand. Unseen, I smiled kindly upon my son, wishing him only the best.

"Are you sure it is not right to tell our families?" The girl asked him, raising her other hand to rest lovingly on Tyelkormo's face.

Tyelkormo shook his head. "My father," he replied simply. As the girl bent her head in mournful understanding, I felt as if Tyelkormo had stabbed me in the heart with one of his spears. What had I done? Was he ashamed of me?

Guilt for my unknown crime began to gnaw at me, but I looked on, unable to suppress my curiosity.

"We cannot be truly happy until our kin knows of this," she pressed, "Tell me true--will there be anything to come of us?"

"Little bird. . ." Tyelkormo smiled, as if fondly recalling something, then continued gently, "I wish you could roost in my heart forever, but I think this time is unripe. There is a peace to be made yet."

I suppressed a sputter of astonishment--even the hunter had become a poet in the face of love.

The shadowy maiden nodded, appearing to take this into thought, though perhaps not readily, for Tyelkormo added, "Time will do nothing to us. Nothing."

"I wish it were so," she murmured wistfully, voice somber as if already lamenting what they had lost.

"It shall be so."

There was only a trembling silence, then Tyelkormo bent his head, holding the girl close, and kissed her. I averted my eyes politely, wishing for my son to retain at least a few secrets.

Their embrace was long, but when they pulled away, faces still almost touching, the maid laughed quietly, tenderly, and I froze, memories spilling loose through my heart, unwanted as they were. I knew it could not be, _wanted_ it to not be. But as the girl turned, still smiling, her face fell into the silvery light, letting the radiance illuminate every smooth, rounded curve of her beautiful, too-familiar face.

It was Alalmë.

My son was in love with. . ._no._

I could not think clearly; the names blurred in my head, along with the hatred and rage and grief, and always, always the cold ache of betrayal. How could my own son have done this to me? I was his father--I had loved him, raised him, taught him, praised him, and he betrayed me for. . .for her. The blood thrummed in my ears, every heartbeat as earsplittingly loud as a shriek of agony, and my eyes stung with tears. How could Tyelkormo have thought of _any_ of Indis' revolting children or grandchildren or kindred, however distantly related, as anything other than spiteful fools, coddled by the Valar and honored above their firstborn half-brother? Did he too now love the younger children of Finwë, as the others did, like just another simpering courtier, just another careless subject?

I wanted to strike him for his arrogance and fall at his feet begging for the love he owed me as my son all at once.

When I managed to recover from the worst of the needles of agony that pricked every part of my body, Tyelkormo stood alone, looking up into the sky spangled with stars, and Alalmë was gone.

I waited until Tyelkormo was long gone into our house, then entered as well, my feet making no sound as I went to my chamber. My head was weary and hurt, and I longed for sleep, so I could heal, but a rising fury kept me awake.

As the first beams of the light of Laurelin crept into the room Nerdanel and I shared, I promised myself I would see to it that Tyelkormo would end his foolish infatuation with my half-sister's niece.

However, I kept silent upon the subject for many days, until one fateful evening, as the family sat around the table, eating dinner.

My sons were talking enthusiastically about everything that came to them, but at last Tyelkormo straightened and set down his goblet. His eyes flickered with unreadable emotion as he began to stand to his feet.

"Where are you going?" I asked, perhaps too sharply. Tyelkormo froze, looking at me with a startled shock that he quickly hid under the relaxed attitude he was wont to have.

"To the walls," he replied quickly, coolly. I wished I were unable to see he was lying, but my clear sight into the thoughts of others had not left me over the years. My heart grew sullen and angry with remembered rage.

"Go then," I sighed, then silently added to myself as I bit my tongue and gazed at the blank, wooden surface of the table, _Go on. Go to your tryst with that wretched, shameless kinswoman of Findis. _

When I looked up from the table, I saw my entire family had gone quiet, looking at me with wide, shocked eyes.

Nerdanel set down her goblet, gray eyes startled and surprised as her face stiffened. Tyelkormo stood fully to his feet, mouth working but no sound coming out. I could almost hear his heart pounding in the silence as he searched for words.

"You know," he said at last, voice trembling with emotion, and I realized I had spoken my thoughts aloud.

"Kinswoman of Findis--?" Carnistir said confusedly, looking between his brother and me anxiously but with rising disgust and contempt for Tyelkormo, "You _love_--"

"What of it?" Tyelkormo accosted his little brother mercilessly, looking ready to strike Carnistir with all the strength and surprise of a cornered serpent. "_What of it if I do_?"

Carnistir's dark eyes widened, and he seemed to prepare to reply with something equally harsh.

Nerdanel brought her hand down slowly but firmly on the table, stifling any bitter response.

"You have no quarrel with Carnistir," she said evenly, attempting to soothe the elder. Tyelkormo looked back to me, eyes frightened and defensive, all thought of Carnistir forgotten.

"How did you know about Alalmë?" He demanded.

Carnistir looked banefully at Tyelkormo, and Curufinwë's face was that of one whose world had been shattered.

He loved his brother dearly, but loved me just as much, if not more. He was the only one of my sons to share a name with me, and was like me in ways that were evident in both his face and heart.

Only Maitimo remained placid, watching Tyelkormo with eyes that both pitied and understood.

I evaded Tyelkormo's question. "How dare you love one of _them_!"

"Father," Tyelkormo's voice was slowly rising, with hurt and anger and fear. "Alalmë is not like her aunt. She is not Indis!" The words were a hoarse shout. His eyes searched mine desperately for forgiveness, for clemency. "The hurts they dealt you are not hers! Forgive her of all her imaginary wrongs!"

"Imaginary?" I laughed harshly, standing to my feet as well. "She is no different! _She is not meant for you_!"

"Father, I thought you would understand!" Tyelkormo's voice softened and broke with despairing emotion. His eyes were too brilliant to not be filled with tears, but he resolutely continued. "I thought I could heal the rift between--"

I stood, every breath ripping hard and fast through my body.

"It _shall never heal_! Indis supplanted my mother! She usurped my father's love for Míriel! He has forgotten her for Indis!"

"Finwë loves you still! He loves us! Míriel died of her own choosing, as it was Finwë's own choice to remarry!"

"Do not speak of my mother!" I snarled, furious to hear him even speak Míriel's name in this hour. Both of us were now vehemently enraged; I saw not that Tyelkormo was my son. Nor did I feel any kinship to him. All I saw were the words he spoke, and how they challenged my own.

"I forbid you to love Alalmë, or any of the kin of Indis or her children, whether by blood or marriage! It is not to be!" For a moment there was only silence, then Tyelkormo opened his mouth to reply.

Unthinking, blind, I lunged at him, wanting to stop the arguments before they came. I would not hear him speak as they did. I would not have him think as_ they_ did--

"_Stop_!" Nerdanel shouted, in an angry, steely voice I had never heard her use before as she stood as well, and came between us. "Both of you! You are not children! Fëanáro, you are above arguing with your own son! You should know better! I _thought_ you would know better! And Tyelkormo, you are--_no_!"

Suddenly, she went pale, hands fluttering to her curved belly as she forgot us in her new worry. She gave a shallow gasp of astonishment as her eyes widened.

Then, like a flower rooted from the earth, she collapsed.

Before she hit the ground, Tyelkormo caught Nerdanel in his arms, cradling his lifeless mother close. Her eyes fluttered open once, looking at me helplessly but without any recognition, then trembled shut.

"_Mother_!" Curufinwë screamed as though his very being were being ripped apart, staring in horror at Nerdanel's bloodless face. Maitimo stood to his feet, chair crashing to the floor, dark eyes shocked, but still he was silent.

Heart pounding in my throat as all anger faded into fear and mad, agitated love, I said in a shaking voice, "Carnistir, Curufinwë, go get the horses. We are leaving. Now!"

"Where?" Carnistir asked suspiciously.

"What about Mother?" Curufinwë sobbed, eyes wet with tears. Maitimo extended an arm to comfort his youngest brother, but Curufinwë shoved his arm away furiously, eyes blind to all save his mother. "Help her!"

"We are going to Grandfather's house," I told them, though my eyes remained fixed on Tyelkormo and Nerdanel. "He will find us help."

The ride was an anxiously swift one, punctuated only by the ragged sound of Nerdanel's shallow breathing.

Each breath she took seemed quick and knifing, as though she was in labor, but that could not be--she had another fortnight before she was supposed to give birth. This was too early.

We came to Finwë's house, and I dismounted first, and knocked on the door. Nolofinwë answered it, his face surprised when he recognized me.

"Fëanáro--" he began, but I would have none of his idleness.

"Out of my way," I snapped, looking down at him with irritated contempt, though now was not the time to argue with my half-brother, "Where is my father? _Tell me now!_" I nearly shouted when my half-brother did not answer at once.

"He is at dinner," Nolofinwë replied in an unsure voice, glancing over my shoulder, to my sons on their horses, Tyelkormo still carrying Nerdanel's limp, trembling form. "He--"

Impatient, I shoved past him, calling for my sons to follow as I wound my way through the halls to the dining chamber.

Finwë, sitting at the table with Indis and his children, looked up when I entered. I noticed that, by some twist of fate, Nolofinwë's entire family was sitting with him.

Why had they been invited to dinner, and I had not known? I cared not at all now. Well, maybe briefly.

"Father," I said, strangely breathless, "It is Nerdanel. She--"

Tyelkormo entered, carrying Nerdanel. Finwë's eyes widened with shock, but it was Indis who rose and spoke first.

"One of you--send for a midwife," she ordered softly, then turned to us. "Tyelkormo, take her to your father's old chamber; I will show you the way."

My old room was just as I had left it so long ago.

Tyelkormo gently laid Nerdanel down upon the bed, then looked up at me with dark, somber eyes that held a fierce rage that barely passed as subdued.

Indis was silent for a moment, observing the bridled emotion in our eyes, then bowed her head and said, "I shall send for food or wine, if you have need of it."

"No," I told her, frustrated enough already that I was in her debt, "Tell the rest of my sons to come. That is all."

Indis nodded and left, and I knelt at the bedside, brushing Nerdanel's fiery locks away from her face. It was not visible, but I could feel her trembling like a trapped animal. She moaned quietly, brow furrowing as her hands clenched into pale fists.

"I am sorry," I murmured, letting the tears run loose down my cheeks when she did not reply. "Oh, beloved, I am so sorry."

I almost forgot Tyelkormo was in the room, but then he asked in a quavering voice, "Father?"

"What is it?" I retorted, both annoyed and grieved, eyes never leaving Nerdanel's ashen face.

"Father--I am sorry. I--" He swallowed, then continued, voice hoarse and reluctant, as if the words he spoke were not his own, "I will not defy you again. Your will shall be mine, from now on. Alalmë--I will forget her." I almost forgave him, for the wounded heartache in his face was plain as he spoke of the girl. "I promise. Your blood is that which flows in my veins, not--not hers."

I was about to reply, but at that moment Curufinwë darted into the room, followed closely by Carnistir, and more slowly by Maitimo.

"Will Mother be all right?" Curufinwë asked earnestly, unable to take his eyes away from Nerdanel, "Arakáno said a midwife is coming. Will that make Mother better?"

"Who is Arakáno?" I asked, surprised.

"A tall boy!" Curufinwë informed me, eyes glowing with sudden admiration as he turned from his mother, "With long black hair. He is almost as tall as you, Father! And strong! He lifted me up like I weighed nothing!"

"He _lifted_--" Suddenly I felt unusually protective of my fifth son. "When did he--"

"He is the youngest brother of Findekáno," Maitimo put in calmly. "He is a son of Nolofinwë."

"Will Mother be all right?" Curufinwë asked suddenly, remembering the matter at hand, and tears threatened to fall again from his eyes.

"She--" I began lamely, then remembered what I was about to say to Tyelkormo. "Listen to me, all of you. Mother is--sick because of my argument with Tyelkormo over our--associations with the children of my stepmother, Indis. I know you all love your mother, and I do too, and I do not want this to happen again. I want you--all of you--to promise me that you will never, ever love the kindred of Indis. I will allow you to--to be friends with them. But I will not allow you to love them, for you must always remember the hurt they did us. That way, none of _us_ will be hurt again, and Mother will not be sick."

"Father?" Curufinwë asked in a quiet, frightened soberness.

"Yes, Atarinkë?"

"Are we not the kindred of Indis?"

"We are not," I responded gently.

The little boy's expression darkened, and there was a lingering quiet as he thought.

"I promise, Father," Curufinwë told me somberly at last, walking to my side and taking my hand in his little one. "I do not want Mother to get sick ever again."

"I promise," Carnistir said, voice eager and fiery. "I do not want their friendship anyhow. You are my family, Father."

"I promise," Tyelkormo murmured, voice sad but resolute.

We all looked to Maitimo, but my eldest son remained silent, raising his eyes from his mother to meet ours. For moment he held our gaze, then he turned away and left the room.

I did not get any sleep that night, but only waited restlessly with my sons outside the door of my chamber, anxiously waiting whatever news was brought to us, good or ill.

Curufinwë, despite his constant worry for his mother, was the one who slept the most, head lolling on my shoulder as his eyes fluttered open and closed, drifting in and out of sleep and dreaming. Carnistir sat at my feet, knees pulled up under his chin as his brow furrowed in thought. Maitimo leaned against the wall, face placid though his eyes revealed his uneasiness. Tyelkormo sat beside Curufinwë, alternately staring at his hands and at his youngest brother with a thoughtful, sad expression.

And I remained restless, only motionless for fear that I would startle my dozing children if I stirred or got up to pace.

The labor going on in the next room was unusually quiet, almost eerily so, broken only by the midwife's quiet orders and the hasty feet of those sent on errands for supplies, coming and going from the chamber. The only evidence I had that Nerdanel was still alive was the fact that the midwife remained in the room.

I was still wracked with guilt for causing Nerdanel's untimely labor, and lamented my rash temper over and over. If I had not argued so with Tyelkormo, if only I had spoken to him quietly and evenly, far from the rest of my family. . .

So many things could have been avoided. But the fate had been cast, and now I did not know what would happen.

"Prince Fëanáro," someone said, and I leapt forth from my thoughts.

"What?" I looked up eagerly, afraid and curious. It was the midwife, tendrils of smoky hair falling from the knot at the back of her head, blue eyes and pale face weary from a night of work.

"My prince, your sons have been born," she told me slowly, taken aback by my sudden energy.

"_Sons?_"

How many infants had Nerdanel given birth to? How many children had grown in her womb? More pity and guilt settled upon my already heavy heart, threatening to send it even deeper into the black despair that I wore like a heavy cloak.

"Twins," the midwife replied, giving me a tired smile, "And well worth the trouble we went through for them. Come see."

Standing slowly, trying not to wake Curufinwë, I followed her into the room, too afraid to ask after the twins' mother.

Golden light spilled from Laurelin through the window upon Nerdanel's pale face, kindling her coppery hair into a delicate halo. Her eyes were closed, and my blood chilled in my veins as I waited for them to open again.

After what felt like an eternity, they did.

Her eyes were bright as she gazed upon the two infants that slept in her arms, but the glow dimmed as she raised her eyes to me.

"Seven," she murmured, satisfied but exhausted, "Now there are seven."

I almost laughed and wept at the same time for her determination, and came to the bedside, looking down upon the sleeping twins.

Even then, their faces were eerie echoes of each other, as if one child had looked into a mirror and admired his image so much that he had invited the reflection to join him for a lifetime. They looked almost exactly as Maitimo had when he had been a babe, for tufts of reddish hair crowned their heads.

But they were even smaller than he, weaker, feebler, because of their premature birth. My heart nearly broke with guilt and love as I gazed upon them. They would always be small and frail, for the rest of their lives.

"We will need to take especial care of them," Nerdanel told me in echo to my thoughts, her voice firm, as though she spoke to a child, "They are so little, and so fragile--"

"Have a care for yourself," I warned her, but she shook her head adamantly.

"No. I--" She bent her head close to me confidentially. "I believe I will love these two best."

I shook my head, smiling in wonderment at her calmness after such an ordeal, then looked down at the sleeping twins.

"I think I will name this one Pityafinwë, because he so little, and this one Telufinwë, because he is the last."

Nerdanel smiled at my choices. "Yes. Little and last. That is what they are."

"What will you name them?"

"Ambarussa. Because of their lovely hair." She kissed each russet head tenderly, mouth curved in a proud, loving smile as she did so.

"Both?"

"Both."

"You are naming _both_ of them Ambarussa? How can we tell them apart?" I asked disbelievingly, but Nerdanel nodded somberly to my first question, and then said, "Very well. I will name one of them Ambarto."

"Which one?"

"Time will tell."

Author's Note:

Wow! Lots of reviews! You people know how to make a girl happy. (beams)

Welcome to my whacky world, **Calvusfelix**! It's always nice to see a new face appear in the reviews. Thanks for adding your rather significant two cents; they really made me stop and think.

The issue of whether the suffix of 'the Fair' to Celegorm's name is to be interpreted as a description of his hair color or just of his physical beauty is a valid one, to say the least. For this story, I'm going to go with the latter idea for a few reasons. Firstly, drawing on my rather limited knowledge of genetics, wouldn't it be a phenomenon for a son with fair hair to be born to dark-haired parents? I myself have no idea, the question is strictly rhetorical. :-) Secondly, Celegorm _was_ the 'jock' of the family: he hunted, rode, etc. These demanding hobbies would without doubt make his body attractive and toned and. . ._yum_. . .but I digress into absurd girlish fantasy.

As for Fëanor's subtlety, hm, point taken. All he's done so far in this fic is seethe and gnash his teeth. I'll have to work on that in future chapters. Thanks again for reviewing.

Glad you like it, **Mizamour **and **Ellfine**. Your enthusiasm and encouragement are always much appreciated.

**Dawn Felagund**: Nice to hear from you again! Where to begin? You left me such a gloriously long review, I have no idea where to start. . .

Firstly, as to Nerdanel's 'are you ill?' inquiry: Gah, I have no excuse, really. You got me on that one. :-)

Second: pertaining to my reference to my own writing as 'poor'. . . Ok, ok, I admit my stories are better than _some_ (happy now?), but definitely not on a par with the works and authors in my favorites. They're there because I admire them muchly. But, in my defense, I _am_ being a bit of a nasty writer at the moment by making poor Fëanor and his family play second fiddle to my Batman Begins fanfic, _Dark My Light_. Which, by the way, was posted August 5th. If you Tolkienites happen to also be fans of _le Bathomme_ movies or comics, check it out! (pause) See how awful I am? Tsk, promoting a story in an author's note for another story. . . Hm. But things in _Fire _are going to get exciting soon. So I may divert my fickle interests to the eldest son of Finwë for a time (at least a week or so) while _Dark My Light _garners reviews.

By the way, _love_ your inheritance idea. Far more legit than mine. However, I need the friction of inheritance and hierarchy to keep my fic going. :-)

Finally, some of you (namely, **Dawn Felagund** and **Unsung Heroine**) have been inquiring after my email address. Much as I am honored by your desire for closer communication, I'm going to have to refuse it because of some issues beyond my control. I am a teenager who still lives with ever-watchful parents. While _I _trust your intentions, my folks by nature mistrust everyone I meet online, and they have forbidden me from the get-go to release my email address. You are not the exception, but the rule. Please don't be offended in least--it is nothing personal and has nothing to do with my own thoughts about you. I would have _loved_ to assist with the Silmfic workshop, **Dawn**! Please let me know in your review if there are any little things I can do to help--a little publicity in my profile, perchance?

Love, love, nothing but love,

Blodeuedd


	23. Chapter TwentyThree: Alalmë

_Chapter Twenty-three: Alalmë_

When we returned to our house, all seemed to be well. Ambarussa's four elder brothers all became devoted to taking care of the twins. Even Makalaurë would sometimes visit with Márlindë to see his two youngest brothers. But though their brothers loved them greatly, it was Nerdanel who loved them best of all. She would often work herself to exhaustion both doing all her tasks about the house and looking after the two infants, and it took all the other members of the household to keep her from doing even more.

Because of her new devotion, Nerdanel rarely seemed to have time for me, let alone her other sons. Even when we had had five children, and even on the days when the work of the forge was all my life consisted of, we had still been able to find time for each other, for a kiss in the hall or a walk in our small garden. But now we rarely even talked, and she was almost always asleep when I came to the chamber, and I dared not disturb her, even for conversation, so even our merest interactions wore thin. I could only jealously hope that her love for the twins would dim as they grew.

I knew this was a selfish desire. Because of their untimely birth, Ambarussa were unusually small and frail. While their spirits seemed as alive as those of their elder brothers, their exuberance was confined to a pair of diminutive bodies that wearied easily of all tasks. Nerdanel and I both knew that their childhood would be far different than those of the boys who had come before them, but feared to say it aloud.

Trying to divert myself from this chilling idea, I spent more time with my sons, riding on the plains. I even began helping them with their frivolous pastimes, though I knew that blacksmithing should and always would come first in my mind. So often was I among them that they treated me as a friend, not a father, and I learned more of their doings than I had in the days when I remained in my forge instead of in their midst.

One day, in the late autumn of the year that Ambarussa turned twenty, Finwë came to visit our house. Carnistir, playing by himself in the dooryard, was the first to see his grandfather's approach, and, ever the noisy one of the family, spread the tidings quicker than wildfire through the home.

"Grandfather is here!" He called into every room of house, flinging open the doors in a flurry of sound, face alive with excitement.

"Have a care, Morifinwë," I cautioned, stopping one door that had threatened to crash alarmingly into the wall, "You are two and sixty years old, not a child."

Slightly cowed, Carnistir flushed and stammered ashamedly, "I am sorry, Father."

Not a second later, Curufinwë's delighted voice filled the gap of silence left by his elder brother's. "Grandfather is at the door!"

Carnistir looked to me for approval, and seeing me nod, followed me into the entrance room. Finwë stood there, regal as ever, even though he wore only simple riding clothes, with only a plain gold circlet about his brow as a mark of his status.

"Father. . ." I smiled and embraced him, then Nerdanel offered him a seat. As he sat, my younger sons flocked to his feet. Delicate as they were, Ambarussa insisted on clambering onto his knees—a place they both fit neatly upon due to their small size. Finwë smiled down at them.

"We went down to the walls today with Father!" One of the twins told him proudly.

"You could see _everything_!" The other added.

"Someday you must show me," Finwë told them somberly, as if he had never seen the walls of his own city before in his life, even though Carnistir looked hard-pressed to stifle laughter at Ambarussa's innocence, "And what have my other grandchildren been up to?" He turned his eyes to the elder sons, standing awkwardly by the hearth. They were too old to be clambering all over their grandfather like a band of unruly puppies, but their eyes were nonetheless fond and respectful.

"Nelya—have you grown?" Finwë asked of my eldest boy with an appraising smile, "You seem taller than I remember." Maitimo shrugged, and his grandfather laughed gently. "How did you find that book of poetry I sent you?"

"It was wonderful, Grandfather," his grandson replied automatically, voice sincere, "Thank you."

"And Tyelkormo—so handsome!" Finwë exclaimed, "You look so much like your father."

Tyelkormo smiled wordlessly, glancing sidelong at me to carefully consider the worth of this compliment.

Finwë turned to me, expression sobering but also softening. "I am sorry I have not come to visit sooner, but Findis has been coming to our house day and night, with questions and demands about her kinswoman Alalmë's wedding--"

"_Alalmë's_ wedding?" Tyelkormo echoed sharply, suddenly sitting up and looking disbelievingly at his grandfather's face. Everyone else, except for Ambarussa and Finwë, fell silent and still. Even Nerdanel's hands, kneading the dough for the dinner's bread, went motionless as she too turned to listen.

"Yes, have you not heard?" Finwë asked blithely, unaware of Tyelkormo's erstwhile love for his daughter's niece, "To Minyanar of Taniquetil."

"No, I had not heard," Tyelkormo said in a dull voice, looking at me with sad, acquiescent eyes.

"I will not trouble you any further about it; I know you are not overfond of news concerning them," my father said, the comment made to me.

"I think I am going," Tyelkormo interrupted slowly, sounding as though instructing himself as he stood. His face was dazed and hurt. "Yes. I will go hunting." He left the room without another sound, and the silence remained for a few moments after he left.

"I want to go too!" One of the twins said suddenly, no doubt unsettled by the unease in the room.

"No, Pitya," I told him gently, "You are too young."

Ambarussa looked up at me, eyes willful, but eventually the stubborn want on their faces slowly subsided, worn down by my own adamancy.

"Stay," the other twin said to his brother, "Grandfather is here." Soothed, Ambarussa snuggled back down together in Finwë's lap, smiling and giggling as if all was forgiven and blissfully forgotten.

"I will not force you to go to the wedding," Finwë murmured at last, looking up at us, "But it would please me if you came. I rarely see my eldest son anymore." His smile made me yield at once.

"Of course, Father. We will go," I replied, ignoring the startled looks that rained down upon me. Many things may have changed over my life, but my affection for my father was little changed at all.

Finwë stayed late into the night, eating dinner with us and then returning home. Tyelkormo did not return during or after my father's visit. Worried, I stayed up to see his arrival.

The fire was dying in the hearth when Tyelkormo at last returned. When I turned away from watching the embers, I saw his sack bulged with an unusually large amount of game. He regarded me silently for a moment, then put his bag on the table. I came over to look at his catches, and watched as he pulled out three hares, four ducks, and several small birds.

"Why so many?" I asked, though I saw the morose fire in his eyes even as I said the words, "This is too much. Half of it will spoil before we eat the other half."

"I could not stop," he murmured, eyes fixed on the still carcasses, "I just hunted down everything I found. I kept thinking of--of Alalmë and the wedding and--Father! Oromë will be so upset when he finds out! We never kill this much in our hunts together!" His voice grew strained as he forced himself to think of other things. "We always--we do not--"

"It is not Oromë you care about," I remarked, seeing the hidden truth in his face. Tyelkormo looked at me, face resolute for a moment, then crumpling with emotion.

"No, it is not. Not at all. It is--but why did Alalmë--why did she--"

"Because you held true to your father," I told him, holding him close and feeling him go still, "Because you kept true to your blood."

"I try to remember that--but why did she--? I was so faithless! How could I have done this to her? She seemed so hurt when I ignored her--"

"You are not the faithless one," I said vehemently, "Do you not see? It is she that is faithless. Forget her, Tyelkormo. She is not for you."

"Is she?" Tyelkormo muttered hoarsely, voice muffled, "Is she?"

"Yes. There will be another for you, Tyelkormo. You will know when you see her. Do not think of Alalmë anymore, she is just as heartless as her kin."

"I will forget her, Father," Tyelkormo promised as we walked through the empty house to our separate chambers, "I swear. . ."

But Tyelkormo's resolve nearly broke when we went to the wedding. Alalmë looked more radiant than ever in her lavish gown, and she had a joyful smile and kind word for all who came to her wedding. But beneath her laughter and mirth there was a sadness, veiled to all save me, which plainly said her heart was not entirely with her new husband.

When she came to greet us, she lingered last and longest on Tyelkormo, silently asking him a thousand questions to explain a thousand sorrows.

"I hope you find this affair to your taste, Tyelkormo," Alalmë offered delicately, maintaining an air of neutrality though her spirit was wilted with tears, "I know you prefer the hunt and chase to such idle celebrations."

He looked ready to apologize, but looked resolutely to me and said, "I will enjoy it, Lady."

"I must welcome the others," she murmured inadequately, eyes suddenly too bright. She left as silently as a summer wind, gaze empty and vague.

Seeing the returning sadness in my own son's eyes as he watched her move about the feast and the festivities afterward was enough to hurt me as well, but I hid my pity and told myself firmly that what I had done was for the best.

Author's Note:

**Unsung Heroine**, it is totally okay for you to answer my reviews in your reviews. Whew, that sounds a little confusing out on paper, but I think we both understand! Don't worry about the Alalmë error; the whole point was that Celegorm had an anonymous girlfriend and I wasn't expecting anyone to get it anyway. The Aredhel guess was completely canon and would have been perfect if I'd had the prudence to think of it before I went OC-happy. As for the Ambarto thing. . .(mysterious grin) you'll have to wait and see, won't you? I'm not going to give anything away, save for that Fëanor does 'lose' his youngest sons in a sense when he arrives in Losgar.

**Anglachel**, I am totally with you. Childbirth is yucky. Beautiful in an odd way, but yucky. There's a reason why this story is told from Fëanor's point of view and not Nerdanel's:-)

**Calvusfelix**, I know that Maedhros was supposed to be the 'well-formed one,' but he's never struck me as one of those burly jock guys. To continue with the high school stereotypes analysis, he seems to be more like the handsome but geeky guy who hangs out on the library at lunch and is a member of Debate Team or some other staple group of the school intellectuals. Nothing wrong with those guys (I like them even more than the jocks most of the time), but they're a different kind of handsome. I can't believe I'm discussing this--NEXT subject!

**RavenLady**, all I can say about writing each of the sons of Fëanor is that it is both a pleasure and a pain. While fun at times, writing six or seven different reactions to a stimulus can get dreadfully tedious after a while. :-) Anyone who's written a story similar to mine will agree, I'm sure.

And, finally, an interesting thought was brought up by **Molly** in her review (thanks so much for reviewing, by the way!) about whether or not Elves could have premature births. I myself, being neither an Elf nor pregnant, would have no idea, but my assumption was 'Well, right then! Nerdanel is expecting, there's a lot of angst going on--there is no way the Valar or the perfect-ness of the land they live in is going to regulate when a woman goes into labor!' Especially when Elves don't normally get into fiery arguments like this--any family of Fëanor is bound to be a little atypical.

Thanks again to all of you! I love hearing what you have to think.

Best,

Blodeuedd.


	24. Chapter TwentyFour: Melkor

**A quick note to the readers of _Fire_: Due to the busy year I have ahead, I'm going to begin posting chapters in "blocks" of two or even three at a time. They will continue to be posted on Friday evenings, but come prepared for larger doses! My author's notes will be at the end of each block, at the bottom of the last chapter, except in the case of this initial chunk, where it will be found in Chapter 23. Sorry if this change confuses or annoys.**

_Chapter Twenty-four: Melkor_

In the year that he came of age, Curufinwë came to Nerdanel and me with a silent, dark-haired maiden named Aranel, and asked for our permission to wed. Aranel was a kind, if shy, girl, and easy to like once she became acquainted with us. She had a particular soft spot for the twins, and always asked she could look after them when she came to visit. Ambarussa adored her, and they would follow in her footsteps like a pair of shadows as if she were Nerdanel herself.

In what was our first direct, lengthy conversation since Ambarussa's birth, Nerdanel and I sought counsel from each other, then granted our fifth son our consent for him to wed, and began planning the wedding.

Curufinwë had always been of all my children the one most like me, and who had spent the most time with me in the forge, so I was eager to repay him by helping in whatever way I could. Even Nerdanel was surprised by my sudden vigor. We wrote and sent all the invitations in record time, and were planning to hold the ceremony at the foot of the Mindon Eldaliéva within the month.

It was not until the night before the wedding, when I was exhausted from riding about making final plans and ready for a good night's sleep, that I remembered the customary gift I was supposed to make for Aranel.

Exasperated and half-asleep, I blindly made my way to the forge in the dark, and hastily stoked the fires, trying to think of what I could make in this situation. I had not even had a chance to go to the market and buy fresh bars of metal or jewels.

"How am I supposed to know what would make a maid happy?" I snarled aloud to myself, yanking my blacksmith's apron on with one hand and reaching for my hammer with the other, even while my eyes darted briefly but piercingly over the variety of metals and tools that lay at hand, assessing each in a trice.

"Aranel likes birds; swans, especially," came a voice from the door.

I reeled about in surprise, temporarily blinded from the fires. As my sight recovered, I saw it was Curufinwë, looking just as tired as I was, stifling a yawn as he walked into the forge.

"I could not sleep either," he said, "I can help."

"But--the custom--" I protested.

"You need the help, Father," Curufinwë told me sincerely but firmly as he bent his head toward me confidentially, "You may be the greatest craftsman in Arda, oh great Spirit of Fire, but even the greatest cannot do _everything_ on their own."

It sounded like something _I _should have been telling _him_. I was about to remark on his impudence, but Curufinwë already was tying my spare apron about his waist and picking through the carefully sorted stacks of copper, silver, iron, and gold, scrutinizing each with a hard eye.

Swiftly, I turned my grimace of annoyance into a smile--for what was there that I could I say? The boy had my relentlessly stubborn resolve.

"Here," Curufinwë exclaimed at last, smiling as he held up a small piece of silver and two of my best blue gems, which I had made by combining sapphires and diamonds, "We can shape the silver into a pin in the shape of a swan and inlay it with these jewels for the eyes."

"My gemstones," I griped in protest, "Those were for--"

"I know, I know--'important work,'" Curufinwë finished the oft-said sentence easily, and shook his head somberly, "_This_ is important, Father. They probably would have ended up in some half-finished girdle or diadem--you know it is true. Come on, do not look at me like that--we had better get started."

Curufinwë started out the work, softening and then shaping the silver into the rudimentary form of the noble white bird as I worked the bellows. I offered what advice I could, but it was difficult to criticize his brisk artistry. He made few mistakes and never complained.

He let me take over to etch the fine details--the feathers, the delicate curve of the swan's neck, and the elegant tapering of the silver beak. I pierced the head twice with a hollow point punch to make eyes, and then placed the gemstones within the minute sockets as the metal cooled and hardened.

"She will love it," Curufinwë breathed happily, holding the now-cool piece in his hand, "It looks alive, ready to take flight. And it will look lovely on her." He looked up at me, eyes aglow with gratitude. "Thank you, Father."

I smiled and ruffled his dark hair, remembering the diamond brooch I had been given at my wedding.

"It was no trouble--with your help, my Atarinkë."

The wedding was a wonderfully joyous event, and I felt a special sensation of pride and love as I gave Aranel her pin. Her eyes lit at once when she saw it, and her face flushed happily.

"Fëanáro, it is beautiful," she gasped, voice soft as ever but holding a subtle tone of grateful delight, "How did you know I loved swans?"

I gave my son a quick glance, then smiled and replied, "It was only a guess."

"Thank you so much," Aranel murmured as she fastened the pin upon her gown, running a hand over the small silver swan possessively and lovingly before looking up to her new husband with an equally loving gaze.

The merriment lasted long into the night after the ceremony, and Ambarussa especially got caught up in the feel of the celebrations. It was only after much effort on Nerdanel's part that she managed to stop them from gathering petals from all the flowers in the garden, climbing one of the trees over the garth, and raining the petals upon Curufinwë and Aranel at every chance they got, as they had seen others do earlier. Maitimo, Tyelkormo, and a reluctant Carnistir mingled intermittently with the children of Nolofinwë, especially his three sons, for they were roughly the same ages and enjoyed much of the same things. I let them do so with a light heart, for I was too happy for Curufinwë, the most beloved of my sons, to feel much spite.

The next year Aranel conceived, and gave birth to my first grandchild--a son named Tyelpinquar, who was just as dark of eye and hair as his father, and looked to be like him in mood as well. Nerdanel and I were proud of our grandson and came to visit him often, glad to have a child who was not directly ours, yet one we could cosset and fuss over to our heart's content.

Yet that was the only grandchild we had so far--Makalaurë and Márlindë had remained childless throughout their marriage. Makalaurë came to Nerdanel and me often after Tyelpinquar's birth, to speak in sad tones of how jealous he was of his little brother's child. Makalaurë and his wife had been trying to conceive a child of their own, but had had no such success.

"It is our fault," he said over and over, "There is something wrong. The Valar punish us, but I do not know what our insult to them could be."

"Makalaurë, do not say such things. Surely you shall have a child of your own in time," I consoled.

"That is what Márlindë keeps saying. But--I do not know what to think."

"For the time being, comfort yourselves in that you have each other," Nerdanel said soothingly, stroking Makalaurë's dark hair as she had when he was young, "Fëanáro is right--you will have a child when the time comes."

Eventually, Makalaurë's visits lessened, and Nerdanel and I assumed he had decided to take our advice, but I for one still pitied and worried for my second son. Even though I did not yet fully approve of Makalaurë's being a bard, I still loved him as a son, and felt that I shared his grief.

The years passed, and my two hundredth birthday came and went before I truly knew it had, and by the time I acknowledged my age, many more years had passed.

It was in the unusually bitter wintertime of some year not long after that I first met Melkor.

Maitimo came to me in my forge with the news. "Father," he said, quietly, for I was hard at work on some new goblets for Nerdanel, "There is a man in the dooryard who wishes to see you."

"What is his name?" I asked, putting the finishing touches on my third goblet and turning to my son. Maitimo shrugged, confused.

"He would not tell me."

For the first time in a long while, I felt a stir of suspicion in my heart. "Very well," I sighed, taking a last deep breath of the harsh, musky scent of smoke and removing my apron. I sorely wished I had the time to make myself look a bit more presentable, but there was no time to change out of my work clothes. Swabbing what soot I could off my face with a cloth, I followed Maitimo out of the smithy and to the dooryard, where he gestured briefly to the visitor who stood there, then entered the house.

The man was taller than even my father, and slender, girt in a plain tunic of so dark a blue that it was only a hand's reach from black. He had an aura of subdued power about him, which made me almost take him for a Vala in corporeal form. But then I noticed how, where a Vala's power would have been free of all trammels, all but glowing about his form, his might seemed restrained, confined, and I knew he could not be one of the Powers, though he certainly had the height and fairness.

His face was strong-jawed and proudly handsome, though pale as starlight, framed in sharp contrast by hair that was darker than clotted steel. But it was his eyes that caught and held me as easily as a hunter ensnares a sparrow.

His eyes were a flat, unmistakable black, without any radiance of vigor or emotion in their profound depths, though I read an ambition to prevail over his circumstances elsewhere, in the grim tightness of his mouth and the furrowing of his white brow. But once I met his gaze, I could not turn away, captivated as a moth by flame. I kept foolishly wondering how his eyes were so black and lightless, and why I could not move my sight where I would, why his steady gaze seemed to swallow me into a black maw from where I would not return. At last, in a fierce battle against myself more than the other man, I pulled my eyes free, and felt my ever-quick temper rise in retaliation.

"Who are you," I demanded, "And how dare you intrude without invitation upon my home?"

The man gave me a sallow smile, which held no warmth or gentleness in it at all. Something in me warmed to it, urging me to trust him fully, to obey whatever he said. _No!_ I screamed at myself, grinding my teeth in frustration, _I will not trust him yet!_

"Why so angry, milord Curufinwë?" He asked, voice resonant as a chime. I balked at his improperly casual use of the name as if he had struck me, but he seemed not to notice and went on. "I mean no harm to you or your kin, and are not the lands of Aman free to all who would wander upon them?"

"You have not answered my question. Who are you?"

"Patience!" The man exclaimed, both scolding me and maintaining an aura of flattery at once, "A noble prince of your status surely knows the virtue, Curufinwë." It angered me even more that he now addressed me even more familiarly, if that were possible. "But I shall answer," he continued resignedly, "if it is your command. I am Melkor, freed as of late by my kin and captors, the Valar."

I startled at the name. I had heard of Melkor, but the Melkor I had heard of would have no reason to flaunt his name, if the tales were true.

"Mind your tongue, and do not speak so brashly of the Valar," I snapped.

"Curufinwë," Melkor sighed, plainly disappointed, and again a small part of me tugged at my heart to please his will, to chase his disappointment away and fulfill his wishes, whatever they might be. "I am dismayed. I thought one so brave and wise as yourself, one who has also suffered under the rule of my kindred, would understand my plight, and furthermore pity me as a victim of the Valar's cruelty. Have you not said such words as I have, and worse, of the Valar?"

"I did not _voice_ such thoughts," I shot back angrily, then realized what I had just admitted. Furious at Melkor's persuasive effect on my words, I said in a firm, angry voice, "I want you to leave now."

Melkor smiled again, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise as a cold sensation settled over me.

"Now? Leave now?" He asked, as innocently wounded as an abandoned child, "But I have only just learned of our similar views on the Valar." It looked like he had known of our supposedly similar views all along. _Liar_, I hissed silently. "I assure you that you need not fear speaking your true thoughts to me, Curufinwë, for I understand."

"You wish to hear my true thoughts?" I asked him bitterly, "Then hear them now--I dislike you, Melkor, and think the Valar were right, for once, to chain you to their thrones. Go _now_."

"As you wish, Curufinwë," Melkor replied, smiling as though I had just welcomed him into my house, "I shall go." There was a strange, unfinished tone to his voice as he said that, as though he was going indeed, but intended to return.

With the smooth, easy grace of a cat, he walked to the gate and mounted the ash-grey stallion that waited there. Casting one last expressionless, dark-eyed glance to me, he spurred his horse to a swift canter, and made his way down the road. I did not take my eyes from him until he was well out of sight. I did not trust to turn away while he was _in_ my sight.

But, as time would tell, that was not the last I heard of Melkor.


	25. Chapter TwentyFive: Alqualondë

_Chapter Twenty-five: Alqualondë_

"Father has not been in his forge for a long while," Carnistir observed wryly at breakfast one day, "Perhaps it is that he is no longer a smith."

"Just because he has not worked at his craft for a long while does not mean he is not a craftsman," Ambarussa replied somberly. His twin brother, Ambarto, nodded, equally solemn. They were so alike now that even Nerdanel had trouble telling them apart.

"Do you still think yourself a smith, Father?" Maitimo asked, looking up from his meal with cool, thoughtful dark eyes. He was no longer a child, but a young man, though because he was unmarried he still dwelt with us, and Nerdanel and I were indeed glad of his presence.

"I do," I murmured, setting my goblet down. But I could see where Carnistir had gotten the idea; I had often of late been wearing raiment finer than the clothes I wore when I planned to work in the forge, and rarely went into the forge at all. "I am only--idling, for a while. I do not know what to make anymore. I have made all sorts of things, from rings to gems to statues, and now--I think I have run out of ideas."

"You do not even make gems?" Tyelkormo queried from where he sat beside Nerdanel, "You used to love making them so much."

"I have made them into all the different varieties I can think of," I sighed sadly, "I have trapped starlight in diamonds, I have suffused garnets in my own blood, I have brightened the sheen of opals with morning dew. What else is there to be made?"

"Why not make your own?" Ambarussa said suddenly, "You do not have to take commonplace gems from the earth and adapt them to your will."

"You know how," Ambarto agreed encouragingly, "You are wise enough, Father."

"I--" I stopped short. _What if--?_ "The Trees," I muttered, "The Trees. Their leaves are light. Light--like starlight. I have trapped starlight in diamonds, why not--" I looked up, and my entire family was staring at me with wide eyes. "Why not?" I repeated, then stood awkwardly and went to the twins.

"Thank you," I whispered to each of them, kissing them on the brow gratefully, then left the room.

"He is a smith again," I heard Maitimo declare confidently from behind me as I made my way to the forge.

When I got to the forge, I did not stoke the fires, but gathered together all the jewels I had collected over the years and gazed upon them thoughtfully. All of them though, however beautiful, seemed flawed and imperfect as I looked on them, and I became discouraged.

"I need raw material," I mumbled to myself, taking a handful of pearls from a nearby urn, "But what will it be?" I looked down at the pearls in my hand thoughtfully, taking in their milky white sheen and the delicate iridescence that danced across their faces. Despite their magnificence, they were not enough alone. Setting the pearls down on the simple wooden table close by, I emptied a half-full bag of opals into my hand, seeing how alike to the pearls they were, yet different and lovely. Slowly, surely, a plan began coming to my mind.

But I would need to travel far, far away for what I desired.

For while the pearls I already owned were fair indeed, I knew that I could obtain finer from the Teleri. Opals too could be acquired from the Vanyar, and the Treelight that I desired most of all would be found in Valinor. It was all laid out before me, but it was in the form of a long, wearying journey across most of Aman.

But it could--and would--be done.

I told my family of my plan that night, over dinner.

"I want to go, Father!" Ambarto cried, before I had even told him the entire design, "I will go with you! I am a good rider now, Tyelkormo taught me!"

"Me too!" Ambarussa echoed, eyes bright with anticipation.

"I would I could take all of you with me," I consoled them, "But I think you are too young."

"We are _not_!" Ambarto snorted indignantly, but was silent afterward.

"I will go with you, Father," Maitimo offered quietly, looking at the table. I was surprised to hear such words from my eldest and most reclusive son, but I nodded.

"You shall go, Maitimo." My gaze passed over the sulking twins to my other two sons, who sat quietly looking at me, their meals temporarily forgotten. Nerdanel was silent, her food untouched as she looked out the window with preoccupied eyes.

"I do not have to go," Carnistir said in instant return to my glance, shrugging, "I would probably do more harm than help." Maitimo smiled and patted his little brother gently on the shoulder; Carnistir wriggled like a kitten but returned his brother's smile.

"I will watch Ambarussa with Mother," Tyelkormo added, "Besides, Oromë is going to present me a hunting hound from his pack sometime soon. He said he has found the pup he wants to give me, and I do not want to miss his gift."

Maitimo nodded at his brothers' responses, and looked to me. "When do we leave?" He asked.

"A week from now," I replied, "I need time to make ready, and so will you."

"Where do we go first?"

"To the Teleri--to Alqualondë."

Maitimo and I left for Alqualondë before the changing of the lights a week later, riding away to the sounds of my sons' fervent farewells.

"Father, make us a promise," Ambarto demanded as I mounted my horse. It was clear that he and his twin had prepared extensively for this moment.

"What is this promise?" I asked, smiling affectionately at my son's eager expression.

"Take me with you next time--and Ambarussa," he replied gravely, folding his arms and taking on a look not unlike that of his mother, when she wanted something that was yet out of reach.

"I will," I laughed, "Wherever I go next time, it shall be you two who ride with me." Ambarto's features slackened into delight, and he poked his twin excitedly.

"He will take us!"

"I know!" Ambarussa cried, equally enthusiastic. They lapsed into their own conversation, ignoring everyone else as they spoke in an exchange that was not so much speech as expressions and gestures, for such was the language of brothers with more shared blood than most.

Nerdanel, strangely enough, was in stark contrast with her beloved twins. She remained silent and emotionless, responding little to Maitimo's embrace and promise to return soon, and even less to my quick kiss. My wife's state would have troubled me sorely if I had not been feeling the same tug of freedom in my veins that I had felt so often in my youth. It almost seemed I was leaving the house of my father again, to run free and alone under the sky.

We started off at an easy pace, our horses trotting and dancing, tossing their elegant heads and feathery manes as their hooves chased the wind.

As a traveling companion, Maitimo shed his innate quiet pensiveness and somber mood, and seemed eager to talk with me. Soon we were both talking of everything we could think of and bursting into infectious laughter as we recklessly darted across the Calacirya like old friends. It warmed my heart to see Maitimo's face alight with adoration and mirth, and even a dim echo of myself, impetuous and fiery, in his shining eyes.

Despite our long talks and loitering, we made good time. We were riding along the shores of the Bay of Eldamar in a small matter of days, and enjoying each moment of our ride. At night we set up camp, but rarely slept, for we chose to stay awake to find constellations and tell stories.

On the eighth morning away from home, as we rode toward the cape where Alqualondë stood, a small, golden-haired girl ran out onto the path before us. As fate would have it, Maitimo's horse was a half-trained, skittish stallion, and it reared in terror, ignoring Maitimo's attempts to soothe its wild fear and futile tugging at the reins.

I dismounted at once and lunged for my son's reins. Seeing me, he let go of the reins, and the stallion tossed its head anxiously, eyes rolling. Before it could bolt, I snatched the reins and pulled the horse down from its wild frenzy, whispering quiet, gentle words in its ear. Slowly, the horse calmed, from unreserved fright to faint trembling, and then to total calm. Then I turned to the child.

For a moment, words caught in my throat. The girl was young and small, but undeniably fair with a beauty that surpassed her years. But it was her hair that truly captivated me. It was a gleaming, heavenly mass of gold ringlets, shining fit to surpass Laurelin's own radiance. Face splitting into a smile, she lifted both chubby hands toward Maitimo's horse as if it posed no danger at all, as if it had not nearly killed her.

"Horse!" She lisped, giggling with a voice sweeter than spring.

"_Artanis!_" a boy's voice exclaimed, horrified, and a slender boy ran out onto the road as well, eyes fixed on the girl. He was dark and lean, with a mouth that would have had a mirthful twist to it if it were not presently bent with worry. His appearance almost reminded me of my father, but I disregarded the thought--the boy was far from Tirion, and most likely had no relationship to my family. Following after him was a taller boy, with the same fair hair and elegant face as Artanis, if muted to smoky gold, and eyes so blue they almost seemed violet.

"Artanis, no!" The golden-haired boy chided sharply, picking up the girl and ignoring her emphatic protests of, "Horse! _No_, Findaráto! Horse!"

"Sorry," the darker boy said, giving us an amused sidelong glance, "Artanis loves horses. She would ride them everyday if she were older. Thank you for saving her."

"Thank you," echoed the other youth, " I am Findaráto, and this is my brother Aikanáro."

"And this is our little sister, Artanis," Aikanáro explained, jerking a thumb at the now-silent girl in Findaráto's arms, watching us with friendly blue eyes the color of the sky at noon.

"Your names are Telerin," I noted, "Do you dwell in Alqualondë?"

"Yes. Our father lives there," Findaráto replied, smiling readily, "He will probably want to thank you. Artanis could have been hurt if not for your clear head. Will you come home with us?"

"That would be well," I replied as Maitimo nodded, "For my son and I fare to Alqualondë as well."

"We know _all_ about Alqualondë," Aikanáro said proudly as I remounted my horse, "We have lived there all our lives."

"I want to live there forever," Findaráto sighed, shifting Artanis onto his other shoulder.

"It is the most beautiful place in the world," Aikanáro agreed, then turned to us. "If you do not believe us, look! There it is." He pointed as we ascended a broad stairway carved out of the stone.

Alqualondë was as beautiful as I remembered it from Arafinwë's wedding. This far from the Trees, the starlight was brighter than usual, bathing the waters and the city alike in silvery, ghostly light. The waves whispered silently on shores of pale sand, their murmurs woven with the faint sound of singing. Out of the dunes rose ethereal, fragile-seeming white towers and walls of a brilliant pale stone. Farther out upon the Sea, the white ships, made with extraordinary accuracy in the shape of swans, still sailed on the blue deeps.

"Our father and mother live in that tower, the one nearest to where we stand," Findaráto told us, gesturing with his free hand as we made our way down the sloping stairs, the horses' hooves echoing on the stone.

Maitimo and I dismounted as we entered Alqualondë, and I for one sorely wished I had enough eyes to see all the wondrous sights of the city as we passed, for I was constantly craning my neck or whipping my head about, trying to see everything at once. Always I would see something that interested me--an elegantly carved gateway or some such--when my sight would graze another fascinating spectacle. Findaráto and Aikanáro seemed used to all they saw, striding casually through the crowds of Teleri, smiling and calling out to people they knew.

For all the boys' familiarity with the city and its people, something told me they and their sister were not entirely Telerin blood. The set of their face was not the fragile, slight cast of the Sea Elves, nor did they seem to glide as they walked, as the Teleri did. No, their faces were firm and hard, though Findaráto seemed to have some of the Teleri's fairness, and their footsteps were as solid as any Noldo's.

My questions about their heritage were answered when we came at last to their home. Aikanáro dashed to the door, knocking impatiently, while Findaráto waited with Artanis. The door was opened by a dark-haired boy, older than Aikanáro but seemingly younger than Findaráto. His face split into a smile when he saw his brothers and sister.

"Back so soon?" He asked.

"I will explain later," Findaráto said briefly, then asked, "Artaresto, where is Father?"

"Oh, he was out in the garden reading, I think--why?"

"This man--" Findaráto gave me a quick glance, and Artaresto's eyes followed his gaze, "--saved Artanis."

"How?" Artaresto asked eagerly, but when Aikanáro gave him a sharp look to remind him of his duties, he hurried off, leaving the doorway empty. Findaráto turned to me.

"You never told us your name," he said quickly, in an apologetic tone, "I did not know what to tell Artaresto. I am sorry."

Surprised by his remorse, I smiled and shook my head. "The fault is mine. I am Fëanáro son of Finwë."

"And I am Maitimo, Fëanáro's son," Maitimo put in.

"Fëanáro?" Aikanáro reaffirmed, face going pale. I nodded slowly, surprised by his strange reaction. What was wrong?

"Oh, no," Findaráto moaned, looking at his brother with shame, "Father will--"

"I will what?" came a voice from the doorway, "Who have you brought, Findaráto?"

I looked at the two boys curiously, but their faces were paler than ever.

"Father!" Artanis exclaimed obliviously, smiling again.

I followed her gaze to the doorway, and found myself gazing at the face of Arafinwë.


	26. Chapter TwentySix: The Silmarils

_Chapter Twenty-six: The Silmarils_

For a moment, my half-brother and I only stared at each other. I berated myself for ignoring the resemblance of Findaráto and Aikanáro to my other kin. Though my eyes were sharp when it came to finding the smallest flaws in metal and creating delicate patterns, somehow they had not seen this.

Arafinwë smiled, but the smile was vacant. "Do I know you?"

"I know you, Ingalaurë," I replied coolly, pressing him for a reaction, which he supplied. Arafinwë stiffened in surprise, eyes narrowing.

"Who are you? How do you know my mother-name?"

"Forgive me for not introducing myself," I said, dripping with false reverence, for I was feeling the same innate dislike I had felt for Arafinwë's older brother, "I am Fëanáro, and this is my son Maitimo."

Arafinwë's eyes widened, but his handsome face remained emotionless and calm. "And what brings you here, Fëanáro?"

"Work," I replied, "I wish to procure some pearls from the Teleri."

"Father," Findaráto began numbly, glancing at the ground, "He--he saved Artanis."

"Did he?" Arafinwë murmured, looking at Artanis curiously. Then he looked back up at me. "Well, Fëanáro, I believe my wife and I are beholden to you. Is there anything we can--" His words were too real, too sincere.

"The pearls," I reminded him, not wanting to hear any of it. Arafinwë nodded.

"I will see to it that you receive some during your stay here, brother." I flinched away from the word _brother_. Why did the children of Indis insist on calling me that?

"When should I look for this gift?"

"Tomorrow," Arafinwë replied, "You are welcome to stay here tonight. I am sure Eärwen would not mind setting two more places for dinner."

"I--" I was about to decline, but Maitimo abruptly cut in.

"Yes. We will. Thank you," he told Arafinwë, respect shining in his eyes. I felt my heart seethe with rage. _How dare he?_

"Come in," Arafinwë requested, opening the door a bit further. Aikanáro shuffled inside, suddenly very silent, and Findaráto letting his father take Artanis before following after Aikanáro. I walked in at the same slow, reluctant pace as Aikanáro, but before I could get far, Artanis grabbed at a handful of my hair, not tightly enough to hurt, nor firmly enough to stop me in my tracks, but stop I did.

"Dark!" she exclaimed, fingering it with childish delight, "Black! Father, look! Dark!"

"Yes, Nerwendë, it is black," Arafinwë replied indulgently, smiling at his daughter as I twisted around in surprise. Arafinwë looked to me, smiling even at my mirthless face. "You see," he explained, "Artanis rarely sees dark hair, aside from some of her brothers', for the Teleri, as you know, have silver."

As her father spoke, Artanis released my hair, but held my gaze with her suddenly solemn blue eyes. She held up a tress of her own glorious hair, glancing at it briefly, then looking at me expectantly as she held it up. "Yellow," she told me.

I could not help but smile at the irony. Even a half-grown child could see the first of many simple differences between the son of Míriel and the children of Indis.

Dinner was silent, save for Aikanáro and Findaráto, who spent the time telling their other two brothers--Artaresto, whom I had already met, and Angaráto, who was fair-haired as his eldest brother but more alike to Aikanáro in mood--the story of Artanis' rescue.

Aikanáro at least had recovered from the shock of discovering I was his half-uncle, and spoke of me glowingly, but Findaráto seemed a bit more reserved and cautious, always casting sidelong glances at his father when he mentioned my name. Arafinwë, however, said nothing on the matter, and only made several half-hearted attempts to ease me into the conversation. But I detected the same tone in his voice that Findis used for me--that same cajoling yet lofty voice that spoke of me as some poor, crippled thing that needed to be cared for, though hope failed--and had none of it.

As soon as dinner was over, I left for the chamber that I had been given for the duration of my stay, and went directly one of the room's many windows, to gaze out upon the Sea. Everything was so peaceful and distant outside, so far away from my cares and troubles. Outside, Alqualondë truly looked the part of a city of Valinor--fair, immortal, glorious. But in here, my woes and quick temper pervaded every corner of the house. Why was I thus cursed?

I knew, if only she were here, all would be well. Why had she run to such a fate, while all others walked? Was it my fault?

"Mother," I whispered hopelessly, letting my head fall against the window pane in black despair, "Come back."

"Father? Is something wrong?" It was Maitimo's voice; I straightened at once.

"If I had wanted company, I would have asked for it," I snapped petulantly.

"You never ask for anything, you know it," Maitimo laughed, coming into the room anyway--a brash move for the most reticent of my sons, "You have always insisted on looking to yourself for aid. If the world were crumbling for want of companionship, you would lock yourself in your forge--alone."

"Your insolence does nothing to help me, son."

Maitimo smiled, and shook his head sadly. "I will not argue with you on that. I just wanted to ask--why do you regard the children of Indis with such contempt? Arafinwë is offering you shelter _and _the pearls you asked of him, yet something tells me you would not do the same in his place."

"You are right."

"About what?"

"I would not do the same for him. Take what the world gives you."

"And give nothing in return?"

"Well. . ." He had caught me there, but not for long. "Never give what you cannot take back."

"You tightfisted miser!" Maitimo laughed, sitting in a chair and looking up at me with a cool, thoughtful gaze, "But why, Father? Nolofinwë and Arafinwë are your brothers. Finwë is their father, and yours as well. You are brothers. Say it. Once."

"Very well," I growled, "Only if it will stop your foolish thoughts." I took a deep breath in, and sighed. "Nolofinwë and Arafinwë are my brothers."

"If you ground your teeth any harder when you said that, I think you would break a tooth, Father," Maitimo said, voice amused, "But does that confession not change anything?"

"No. Brothers have quarrels. Blood lends pause, but not for long. And sometimes there is no pause at all."

"You sound like you are going to kill them!" he cried, his smile both fascinated and frightened.

"Who says I will not?" I muttered, and Maitimo's smile abruptly faded.

"You are joking," he said fervently, obviously trying to convince himself with words spoken aloud, "You would never kill them, would you?"

"No?" I asked him, voice hard, "Would I not? What would you know of it anyhow?"

Maitimo's brow furrowed, all mirth gone, and he stood. "I think I am going to my rooms now," he muttered anxiously, and left.

True to his promise, Arafinwë sent Artaresto, Angaráto, and Aikanáro to find some pearls for me the next morning. The three boys came back lugging bucketfuls of the round white stones, so numerous that they spilled over the rims of the pails and rolled along the floor of the house. Artanis, delighted by the gleaming beauty of these strange new things that darted over the floor, almost put several in her mouth, if Eärwen's sharp eye had not seen the danger and scooped her daughter up and away from the pearls.

I thanked each of the boys profusely as I loaded the pearls into leather bags I brought along, but while Artaresto and Angaráto flitted off to play outside, Aikanáro remained behind.

"What is it?" I asked, noticing the same gleam in his eye that I saw so often in the eyes of my own sons, the glimmer of anxious delight that spoke of some surprise he had in store.

"I went climbing in the caves by the arch the swan-ships sail through in the bay, while Artaresto and Angaráto were on the shores," he began, then hesitated, unsure.

"And?" I prompted.

"I found this," Aikanáro said, lifting out a slender vial, in which there was what looked to be ordinary seawater. But as he lifted it in the light, it gleamed and shimmered like the scales of a fish, iridescent flickers floating in its depths for an instant, then were gone.

My mouth fell open. "Where was this?"

"In a pool towards the back. I would have ignored it, but a shaft of starlight fell on it, and I thought--I thought you might want some, so I took one of the vials we had brought for smaller pearls, and filled it with the water."

"Alqualondë should be blessed and hallowed a thousand times over for ever. Thank you," I cried in delight, taking it from him, "You have helped me more than you know." Already ideas were coming to mind that I had not even considered before I had seen this wondrous liquid.

Aikanáro shrugged, flashing a smile of teeth that seemed blindingly white compared to his dark hair. He acted as though it was no great deed, but I saw the pride he suppressed beneath his air of nonchalance.

"It was no trouble."

I made ready to leave next morning, despite Maitimo's protests, and we were riding again by the time the blending of the lights was hours gone. We rode for Taniquetil--a place I had not been since Finwë had met Indis in the shadows of the snow-capped mountains. Our visit there was even briefer than the one at Alqualondë; we were there and gone again, our opals in hand, within a single day, making for Valmar, city of the Valar, and the evergreen hill of Ezellohar, where the two Trees grew.

The difference in our distance from the Trees became increasingly evident each day. The light grew brighter and clearer with each footstep, both beautiful and blinding at once, dimming all darkness. The days were warm and golden, like metal ready to be forged, and the nights were shadowless and silver. On the fourth day, when Valmar was within a day's ride, we could hear the faint ringing of bells, and the strains of many voices raised in sweet song, bathing the city forever in music.

I felt wonder and respect on beholding the Valar's fair city, but also I felt a twinge of the strange insolence inside me. What raised them so far above us, that their city be laid in such extravagant splendor, underneath the boughs of such beauty? Why were _we_ set so far away, far from the fair light they had in such abundance? If they were our caretakers, why did they keep us from the beauty they had in measure? I kept these questions inside me, and entered the gates wearing the mask of cowed respect the Valar must believe they were owed.

Valmar was impossibly magnificent, with elegant walls and slender towers, tall pillars and soaring buttresses. The metalwork of each gate, each window frame, was enough to keep me entertained for hours, but something told me that I could do such work, given proper material and time. I was glad I never had taken Makalaurë here, for he would have insisted upon lingering at each faint sound of song, which the city had in abundance. All in all, it was splendid, glorious, and more beautiful than anything I had ever seen--but I still felt on edge, as if it were only a dream that threatened to break like glass.

Maitimo and I went to the Ezellohar on the second day. Even from afar, the silent thrumming of life from the Trees was an awesome sensation; closer in, the silent hum of life was almost overpowering. You could hardly hear it, yet the sound encompassed all in its sheer joy and delight in being alive, in growing, in being.

The Trees were, in a word, enormous in every sense--enormous in majesty, enormous in beauty, but moreover enormous in size. If I had joined hands in a circle with my entire family, I doubt we would have been able to completely encircle the trunk of either Tree. The twin shafts, silver and gold, rose unfeasibly high into the air, and there was no way you could see the first branches, even on the younger Laurelin, without craning your neck. For a moment, my son and I stood at their feet, staring spellbound at the stunning sight before our eyes, marveling at the sheer size and unconquerable power. If I had to choose a thing to define the combination of immortality, beauty, and might, I would have chosen the two Trees.

At last remembering my task, I went to the foot of silver Telperion, and waited patiently, pulling out a small phial, not unlike the one in which I kept the strange water Aikanáro had found. It was still morning, and the time was right. Soon, I knew, soon what I waited for would come. It was hard to keep from bouncing on my heels in anticipation like an impatient child--I could almost feel, almost grasp the success in my hand. It was so unbearably close.

"What is it that you do, Fëanáro?" came a strange voice from my side. I wheeled in surprise, straining to see the person before me in the dazzling light. It was a slight, silver-haired man, not unlike an Elda. His eyes, though, were brilliant silver, brighter than steel and like the light of the argent Tree above.

"Silmo, guardian of Telperion," he explained when he saw my expression, "Fear not; it is my duty to see that Telperion is kept safe--it is not you I ask this in particular, Fëanáro."

I felt a little soothed, for Silmo's voice was as cool and unsullied as a mountain spring, and I could not bear to mistrust him. "I wait for the dew to fall," I told him, glancing up at Telperion anxiously, "And I ask if I might, with your consent, gather some of this dew."

"Ah. Of course you may," Silmo sighed, raising his gaze as well to the silver branches and silver-green leaves far above, "But for what reason?"

"You shall see," I replied, smiling with pride, even though my work had not even begun. Yes, all Aman would see what I would make. They would not only see it, but marvel upon it, for I would put forth all my skill into this work, and, fate willing, better the works of Aulë himself. If the Eldar were as immortal and fair as the Valar, we were not far sundered, and this must be so also in our crafting of matter.

Apparently satisfied, Silmo nodded to me, his smile kind but distant, and ambled off, gaze almost always resting upon his beloved Telperion as he walked. He was turning away to his work, it was time for me to do so as well.

I waited for a time beneath Telperion's boughs, feeling Maitimo's gaze resting upon my back, but I cared little, until I saw that a pool of dew had begun to gather in a cupped knot of silver roots. Wasting no time, I knelt hastily and uncorked the vial. Then, taking care not to let the lightest touch of my hands taint the sweet, unsullied water, I dipped the phial into the dew. In one smooth motion, I raised my hands and deftly corked the vial. That part of my work was done.

Then, I strode to Laurelin, taking out another vial. This task would be quicker, if harder. Looking up into the blindingly golden leaves, shining like fire above, I uncorked and lifted the phial, letting the yellow light saturate and fill the glass of the slender bottle. Doubt began to nag at me. How would I know? When would I know to cork the bottle and trap the light?

The vial began to grow warm in my hands, and I took that as my signal. I corked the vial and tucked it into my pocket, along with the other two. I had done it. Triumphant delight filled me, and I would have laughed aloud, if not for the sacred near-silence of the Trees.

Maitimo watched me descend the round slopes of Ezellohar, and the two horses snorted in greeting.

"Whither now, Father?" he asked, smiling as he saw my victorious expression.

"Home," I replied, "This labor ends, and another begins."

But it was a changed city to which we returned. The white walls of Tirion, once light-warmed and gleaming, seemed colder, aloofer. The towers that once beckoned and welcomed now seemed to loom over us, proud and indifferent. And it was not only the buildings that had changed. The people themselves seemed chary and mistrustful, rarely meeting our eyes and hastening their steps as if eager to be gone. Maitimo and I noticed the change, but said nothing, afraid if we voiced our thoughts that it would come true.

I would not know for a long while that the changes in Tirion were due to Melkor, for where I had disdainfully sent him away, others of my folk had listened with eager ears.

Our house, however, still provided us with a welcome warm enough. Ambarussa and Ambarto caught sight of us first, as they returned from a hunting trip with Tyelkormo--hunting must have been something new they had adopted in my absence, and I felt a little regretful I had missed this.

"Father! Russandol!" They chorused, leaping the gate and running to us as we dismounted. Tyelkormo followed more slowly, weighed down by a freshly killed stag, but with a smile just a broad as that of his twin brothers on his face. At his heels were his nine hounds, tongues lolling and tails wagging, but a larger hound followed even more closely. That hound, even barely out of puppyhood, seemed nobler, more elegant, than all the others put together, and I knew that this was Tyelkormo's gift from Oromë.

"Look what we caught!" Ambarto cried, holding a dead hare aloft, "Tyelkormo made us a snare and we caught a rabbit!"

"He tried to run away when we found him," Ambarussa continued more soberly, "And he broke free of the snare, but Huan" he gestured to the noble, shaggy grey dog who stood at Tyelkormo's side "chased him down and brought him back."

"Huan is the best of my pack," Tyelkormo declared proudly, giving the Vala-bred hound a well-earned scratch behind the ears.

"Well, I see that your mother will have much to make soup of tonight," I laughed, gathering Ambarussa and Ambarto into a hug and giving Tyelkormo an approving pat on the shoulder.

"Was Alqualondë beautiful?" Ambarto asked, "Did you get what you wanted, Father?"

"Yes, I got what I wanted," I told him as we made our way into the garth, "That, and more."

After a mouth-watering dinner of rabbit, venison, bread, and fruit, I went at once to my forge, and laid out the pearls, opals, the three phials of water and light before me, gathering my thoughts as I gazed upon them. As the night progressed, I laid out other materials beside them--diamonds, white candles, panes of the most delicate glass I had made--until the mound of resources became enormous. Longest did I look upon the light of Laurelin and the dew of Telperion, marveling upon how the glass phials contained their glory. If mere glass could contain such heavenly matter, why not diamonds?

I began to experiment frugally, careful not to waste my materials. Letting a few drops of Telperion's dew fall upon a pearl produced a radiantly glowing orb of light, but, fair as it was, it was not the result I desired. Setting it aside, I continued on by the light of the forge. I mixed diamond chips with the phosphor-water in a small bowl, and the diamond fragments burned in the liquid like white embers, but I set those aside as well.

So it went, until I began to grow frustrated and angry. However, I tempered myself as harshly as I would steel, lifting my mind above such foolish emotion so I could think clearly. As I entered such cloudless thought, I wondered what kept me from capturing the light of the opals and diamonds. If I had done so with the magnificent light of Laurelin, what kept me from doing the same with jewels, mundane in comparison? The stars faded, but I lingered on.

My first attempts failed; the fine sheen of pearls was delicate and indistinct, while the luster of opals was far too bold, flinging itself across the room in a scatter of iridescence. Slowly, though, I grew patient with the shortcomings of the gems, and my endeavors became successful. A short time later, I had three phials each of the two jewels' light. Proud of my skill, I also managed to bottle the light from the flames of the white candles. Though the candles' dull fire dimmed in comparison to the others, and lacked beauty of extraordinary matchlessness, I knew it would somehow be of use.

It was only at this interlude in my work that I realized how heavy my head felt, and how tired I was from such mental exertions. Reluctantly but resolutely, I stood and left the forge, only an hour before day came.

So it was for a long year. I toiled into the morning each night, always trying and failing to achieve what I wanted. My family stopped asking me each day if I had succeeded, for they were always answered with a cold, prickly glare. Even Ambarussa, with their seemingly boundless hope and faith, stopped asking after a while.

But still I pushed onward, seeking to forget the disappointments of past nights, looking toward the redemption of my talent. I cursed, I discovered, I forced, I demanded, but seemingly to no avail.

Until one night.

That night, on the brink of despair and almost at the end of my wits, patience, and materials, I decided to blend all the contents of the phials together, and place whatever results I had in a hollowed gem of diamond glass that I had made myself, as testament to my fruitless effort. So I gathered the vials together, and a great bowl. As I gazed down on the insolent, idle lights and liquids, mocking me with their presence, my spirit's fire flared and raged.

Hands shaking with profound emotion that I even I could not understand, I uncorked the slender bottles one by one, and poured their contents into the bowl. With each drop, my anger began to lessen, soothed by the glowing beauty of the blended lights and waters. At last I came to the last phial--that which contained the light of Laurelin.

But when I looked down at the radiant splendor in the basin before me, I had not the heart to do it. The substance that lay before me was more magnificent than any I had beheld in my life. Both of all colors and colorless at once, it burned with a steady, unfailing light, shining forth even in the dim duskiness of the forge. The substance both dazzled and caressed the eye with its unrivaled beauty. Strangely, it seemed to smile at me like an old friend, welcoming me to bask in its warmth and majesty, yet was as coldly aloof and luminous as a star in the heavens. In its depths, it held unnamed hues that were seen only in dreams; the light, whiter than any flame, merged and danced across the forge for the sheer joy of life.

It was then, gazing upon the strange, beautiful matter I had created, I knew I had succeeded.

But I knew this light, this liquid--I knew not what to call it--could not dwell in this humble bowl forever. I needed to contain it in something worthy of its unsullied magnificence, in something that would make the light shine with a brightness that surpassed even this already unequaled beauty tenfold. Clutching my hands tight together to keep them from shaking, I turned my gaze to the one diamond that lay before me. I had planned to place my failure in its clear depths--why not use it to hold my victory instead?

With the utmost of care, I poured some of the fiery, radiant luster into the glass jewel I had made, knowing even as I did so that one of my diamonds would not be enough. I still had plenty of the white radiance in the bowl to at least fill two more phials of equal size and grandeur. Impulsively, though, I put one drop of the light of Laurelin inside the diamond as well, and began seamlessly welding the top of the diamond on. When I cradled the finished result in my hands, the light seemed even brighter than before, unafraid of its new setting and showing this lack of alarm by shining forth with new radiance.

So I labored long in the making of two more diamonds of my own design, hollowing them out and containing the remaining brilliance in their glass, always letting only one drop of Laurelin's light fall within, to truly bring the luster of the fire to its true extent. It was not until I gazed down upon all three of the completed gems that I truly felt fulfillment.

I knew I had surpassed the skill of the Valar in the making of these three jewels, outdone any Eldarin smith who had come before me, be he Telerin, Noldorin, or Vanyarin. But I also knew, deep in my heart, I could not create wonder of this like again. It was bittersweet, knowing that my life's highest achievement lay before me, and knowing I could never attain this climax again.

Tears threatening to fall, I reached out a trembling hand to touch one of the jewels, desperate to both believe and disbelieve at once. At my touch, the jewel seemed to flare even brighter, the glass of the diamond housing growing warm, as if it knew and understood me fully, as if we had known each other long before this life. Such comprehension and sympathy I had not felt even with Nerdanel, bound as our spirits were.

"Thank you," I whispered to the three silent gems, "Together, we shall bring greater light than ever to Valinor. Only you and I, my Silmarils."

Author's Note: 

I'm glad you guys don't mind my double-posts; I must admit _I _enjoy receiving double the reviews per post.

Thank you, **Unsung Heroine**, for your reviews. Both of them were enthusiastic and insightful. When will we be getting any new stories from you? I can't wait.

**Mizamour**: THANKS. Need I say more:-)

**Stear-chica**, I don't think I've heard from you before, but either way I appreciate it. Hm, Celegorm and Aredhel; I've been hearing that one a lot lately. I must really be missing some obscure reference in the _Silmarillion_. . . Anyway, thanks for the review! I look forward to hearing from you in the future.

Thanks again to all of you.

Blodeuedd


	27. Chapter TwentySeven: Valmar

_Chapter Twenty-seven: Valmar_

"What is it you wanted to show us, Father?" Ambarto asked--not for the first time--as I led the family into my forge.

"You will see," I promised, smiling to myself, then turned to my eldest son and asked, "Maitimo, can you close the door for me?" Maitimo did so, and we were plunged into blackness. Without the light of its fires, my forge quickly became a dark pit.

"Stay still," I urged them. Walking unhesitatingly to a table --for I knew my way around the forge even in uttermost darkness--I opened the lid of the casket where I kept the Silmarils and took the three jewels out. Their steady glow was quick to fill the room with light. My family stood squinting for several moments, until their eyes adjusted.

"What are they?" Tyelkormo breathed, eyes fixed on the three white gems.

"They are the Silmarils," I replied, unable to keep the lilt of pride from my voice, "I made them."

"_Shining white radiance_--the name is perfect," Maitimo exclaimed.

"Can we hold one?" Ambarto asked, as his twin stared in breathless anticipation at the Silmarils. I paused--I had not expected this question, and I had grown used to the smooth warmth of the jewels in my hands. But I reminded myself reproachfully that this was my family; would I withhold my works from the hands of those I so loved?

"Yes," I replied at last, handing Ambarto one of the Silmarils and giving another to Maitimo. Then I moved to Nerdanel, who had remained silent, and made to give one to her, but she shook her head.

"So this is what you did with the light and dew of the Trees," she murmured. Her voice did not sound approving at all.

"I managed to bottle it in phials," I explained, delighted to do so, "And then I blended the lights together, and encased them in unbreakable glass. This way, it will live on forever."

She gave me an inscrutable glance, looking at the jewel in my hand. "This light was meant for all of Aman. Why would you want to keep it to yourself?"

"I--I don't," I said hastily, shaking my head, "I plan to ride for Valmar soon, to show the Valar the Silmarils."

Nerdanel raised a wry eyebrow, but said nothing, watching her sons marvel over the other two jewels. Hurt that my wife had scorned my creations, I turned away to the children.

"I think I need these back now," I told them, placing the Silmarils one by one in the casket, "If I am going to show these to the Valar in Valmar, I need _something _to show."

"We are going with you," Ambarto said resolutely, as his twin nodded adamantly, "You promised."

I remembered my promise to the twins, and smiled. "Then you shall come."

We rode out the very next day, making our first stop at my father's house, for first and foremost came Finwë in my thoughts. The court fell silent as I took the Silmarils from their casket, holding them aloft for all to see.

"Fëanáro, they are truly magnificent," Finwë exclaimed, descending from his throne to speak to me, "They put me in mind of the stars over Cuiviénen. How did you do it?"

"Light from Laurelin and dew from Telperion," I said proudly, as Ambarto and Ambarussa nodded with equal pride.

"You are more of a skilled one than any of us could know, Curufinwë," Finwë smiled, eyes bright with pride and love, "The Valar--yes, even Aulë, though craftsman he may be--will be in awe indeed at the sight of the Silmarils. I wish you only blessings on your trip to Valmar."

"Thank you, Father," I whispered, putting the Silmarils away and embracing him.

Not long after, we made ready to leave, but not before Melkor came upon us in that strange, slinking way he had, catching us by surprise.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded, angry at the very sight of him.

Melkor's face became hurt at once, as though he had donned a mask. "My matters are my own, and would little interest the likes of such a one as yourself. It is indeed a pity, Curufinwë, that I always seem to catch so noble a prince in such a rare ill temper. What troubles you?"

"I shall not answer that," I snapped, as the twins watched silently, "I have little desire for your counsel."

Melkor, nimbly changing the direction of the conversation, fixed his flat black eyes on the casket I had strapped securely to my saddle. "Then might I humbly ask, Curufinwë" I had long since grown used to his use of my personal name, so I ignored him and mounted my horse, "If I may see but one glimpse of the jewels you keep in that coffer?"

"Might I--equally humbly, of course--refuse, Melkor?" I snarled, gritting my teeth into a smile.

Melkor said nothing for a moment, but he did not move to go either.

"It is strange," he remarked blandly, both seeming to maintain a pretense of humility and managing to mock me to my face, "I thought surely _you_ were the most gracious and kindly of the princes of the house of Finwë, but I daresay Finwë Nolofinwë is the one who takes that name in your stead. Why, he said to me only yesterday--"

"Wait!" I interrupted sharply, "Who is _Finwë _Nolofinwë?" I feared I knew all too well.

"None other than the eldest of your half-brothers," Melkor replied innocently, confirming my fears, his black eyes seeming to glimmer lightlessly with suppressed laughter, "Did you not hear he has long planned to take up that name?"

"No," I growled. The nerve of Nolofinwë! How _dare_ he even think to take _my_ father's name as his own! What right did he have to it?

"Well, let it be known to you that indeed he means to, Curufinwë, and more," Melkor said, with an enigmatic smile, "I think that the taking up of Finwë's name is perhaps the least of the eldest son of Indis' designs."

"What do you mean?" I demanded, furious. I would see Nolofinwë and his treacherous kin dead before he laid his contemptible hands on the crown!

"You shall see," Melkor smiled mysteriously, and left, flowing gracefully into the shadows. "I advise you take action, Curufinwë," he called over his shoulder, "If you wish to see _them_" he pointed at Ambarussa and Ambarto, "reign over the Noldor, as is their birthright. Will you deny your sons the kingship?"

"No," I muttered furiously to myself, "No, I will not."

My high spirits were dimmed as I rode to Valmar with Ambarussa and Ambarto, and my mood darkened as my thoughts deepened.

Though I little trusted Melkor, his words had struck deep, and were entrenched in my soul. If he was correct, Nolofinwë, and likely Arafinwë as well, plotted to see a child of Indis upon the throne of the Noldor. Nolofinwë as King, with Findekáno as his heir? The very thought made my brow furrow and my hands clench into fists. _I_ was the firstborn! _I_ deserved the crown! Had I not proved my worth of late? I would like to see my half-brothers attempt to create a Silmaril that was worth even a thousandth of one of my own!

But I remembered Nolofinwë's reverent defense of the Valar, and how fervently he had persisted that they were our guardians and friends. That kind of talk most likely went right to their ears, and earned their love. With the aid and friendship of the Valar in reward for his foolish admiration, Nolofinwë could do almost anything, let alone take the crown. I imagined how easily he could take my birthright from me with the Powers' assistance, and shivered despite myself.

Quickly, I minded myself of the Silmarils. I had outshone all the material works of the Valar with one creation; why could I not outdo their political designs as well? I myself knew I had been gifted with a swift, persuasive tongue as well as skilled hands; I could talk my way out of most anything. If I managed to rally enough companions to my cause, perhaps I could stop Nolofinwë from seizing the throne.

But if I failed--?

_It shall not be so_, I promised myself as we rode through Valmar's bright gates, _I will see it not be so._

My sons and I wasted no time in going to the heart of Valmar, to the great citadel where the Valar often dwelt, basking in the gold and silver light of their making. When the sentinels saw I was the eldest prince of the Noldor, they hastened to let me enter, and so I came to the great hall of the Valar.

The court was filled not only with the Valar and the Valier, but with the Maiar and a scattering of Vanyar as well. I passed through them obliviously, seeing only the Valar, in their fair corporeal forms, sitting in fourteen gilded thrones at the end of the hall.

At the two innermost of these chairs sat Manwë and Varda. Manwë was girt in robes of an unfathomable blue, so like the firmament in color that he seemed clad in the heavens themselves. His eyes were blue also, set in a fair, handsome face both wise and young, and upon his brow was a silver circlet set only with a trio of bright sapphires. Varda, sitting beside him, was clothed in blue cloth as well, but darker, nearly black, the color of the skies at twilight, and set with many diamonds that glittered like stars in the dark fabric. There was no diadem about her forehead, but she wore countless more diamonds woven into her hair, shining about her deep, mysterious eyes.

The other Valar sat about the two leaders of their kind, and I recognized many from the legends of my youth--Ulmo, terrible and great in his sea-green robes and shimmering mail; Oromë, friend of my son Tyelkormo, bearing a mighty javelin and with a great shaggy hound, not unlike Huan, lounging at his side; Yavanna, wife of Aulë, in a simple, woolen frock of earthy browns and greens, though her bearing suggested her nobility; Mandos, maintaining a somber, thoughtful face over his robes of black. . . I even caught sight of Aulë, wearing a copper-colored tunic and with a gold circlet about his brow. It was strange to see my erstwhile mentor in bodily form, when I was so used to hearing only a mighty voice in my head. He saw me as well, and his dark eyes brightened, a smile coming to his face, a smile I did not return.

I felt the cold, satisfied bite of irony as I knelt before the Valar, holding the casket before me.

"August Valar," I began, suppressing my inner smile of victory, "I, Fëanáro Curufinwë son of King Finwë of Tirion, come before you bearing a work devised of my own thought and craft alone."

"What is this creation?" Aulë asked first, face bright with pride.

I let myself smile then. So little did they know! "I call them the Silmarils, and they are three. Forever shall they illumine Aman and all of Arda with their light." With that, I opened the lid of the coffer, and the glow of the three jewels sprang forth, their pallid yet colorful light spilling over everything in the blink of an eye. There was an audible gasp that reverberated across the hall, and I stood to my feet, holding the casket in my hands as I did so.

"What magic is this?" Ulmo asked, deep voice rigidly emotionless, though his eyes are bright with surprise.

"Only that of the enmeshed light and dew of the Trees," I replied smoothly. Ambarussa and Ambarto flanked me on either side, awed and silenced by the combined majesty of the Silmarils and the Valar.

"How did you diverge this light?" Yavanna queried, voice rich as fresh-turned earth.

"I do not know," I said honestly, "I just--separated it from the rest, and gathered it into a phial."

Yavanna looked rather like Nerdanel as she quirked an eyebrow and looked at her husband, but she said no more.

"Bring them closer," Manwë commanded, speaking for the first time. I did as I was told, and took a few steps nearer to the thrones. Varda bent close, silvery-white hair tumbling over her shoulders as she scrutinized the Silmarils. Then she raised her gaze to me, and her eyes shone as stars in the fair coolness of her face.

"I would hallow them, so that no thing of evil or unclean will or mortal flesh might touch them, but only with your approval, Fëanáro," she told me quietly.

I considered this. It would further my dependence upon the Valar--not something I liked--but I was also ensuring the safety of my Silmarils.

"Very well," I said reluctantly, handing her the casket and jewels. Varda regarded the Silmarils calmly for a moment, with only subtle flickers of emotion revealing she had a penchant for the three gems, then her eyes fluttered shut and she passed a pale hand over the jewels. The hall was silent.

Varda opened her eyes, looked at the Silmarils once more, then smiled and returned the coffer to me.

"It is done," she explained, "Guard them well, son of Finwë. They are of more value than you know."

"The fates of Arda are bound to them," Mandos boomed, "Earth, sea, air--over all shall these jewels hold sway. I shall say to you once more the words of Varda--guard them well."

"I shall, for they have sway over my heart as well," I told them fervently, and with a quick bow, left the chamber.


	28. Chapter TwentyEight: The Noldor

_Chapter Twenty-eight: The Noldor_

"Father," Ambarussa called as we approached the gates of Tirion upon our return, "Look! There are men at the gates."

I looked at him dubiously, but the boy's face was sincere, and he pointed. I followed his gesture to the gates of Tirion, and indeed I could see the indistinct shadows of men moving about the walls.

"Guards," I whispered, the word strange to me and new upon my tongue. What cause did we have to place sentinels upon our walls? Was there some danger in Aman? The very thought was laughable. The Blessed Realm was the very essence of a land at peace.

We continued our ride to the gates, but there we were halted by one of the guards.

"Who are you?" He asked, and I felt myself bristle.

"Prince Fëanáro son of the King Finwë, who dwells at the foot of the Mindon," I replied, with more than a little indignation, "And my two sons, Telufinwë and Pityafinwë. We return from Valmar."

The guard lowered his eyes, and the quick-kindled fire in them was quenched. "Forgive my insolence," he murmured.

I raised my chin as high as I could without losing sight of the man. "You are forgiven," I said loftily, "See to it that it never happens again. Now, tell me--from whence did this order to have guards at the gates of Tirion come?"

"From the Prince Nolofinwë, your brother. He said he wished the utmost safety for his father."

_His _father. I bridled even more, if it was possible. That little brat of Indis. I would strangle him the next time I saw him, and his docile shadow of a brother as well.

"Safety from what?" I demanded irritably, "This is Aman, after all. Does he fear the Valar? And with reason--they can deal out death as easily and readily as they do life. Indeed, if not for their foolish playing at authority, my mother would still be alive." I laughed bitterly at the thought, but the guard looked uncomfortable at this brash humor.

"I know not the Prince Nolofinwë's intent," he replied, a little awkwardly.

"Well then, I shall continue my conversation with the more informed within these gates--if you will let us pass." I did not care about how piercing my tongue had become. What was happening to Tirion?

The moment we returned to the house, I locked the Silmarils in a treasury inside my forge, and then went to greet my family. I had many questions to ask of what had come to pass in my absence.

"Have you noticed that there are now guards at the gates?" Ambarto queried before I could say a word, and Maitimo's features darkened.

"Yes, little brother," he sighed, as Nerdanel handed him some plates and goblets to set for dinner, "By order of Nolofinwë."

"They would not let me go out to hunt," Tyelkormo all but growled, eyes hot with remembered wrath, settling himself beside me on the hearth, "What do they expect me to do? Hunt the doves that roost on the Mindon?"

"A fine quarry, that," teased Carnistir as Nerdanel silently handed him a stack of silken napkins, but then his eyes grew solemn as he added in hushed tones, "They say that Nolofinwë was counseled by Melkor to raise that law."

The brothers fell silent. They knew as well as I the tales of old, and of Melkor's irrevocably malicious crimes.

"Melkor is evil," Ambarussa protested, from where he lounged with Huan by the fire, his head on the dog's grey belly, "Why would he do that? The guard told us that they were posted to defend Grandfather."

"Melkor is indeed a strange one," I remarked, "I am confused by his designs."

"We will not talk about Melkor over dinner," Nerdanel said firmly, and the conversation ended.

"I am not afraid of him!" Ambarto argued loudly, standing up.

"Nor am I!" Ambarussa said adamantly, standing beside his brother, "We will _not_ have nightmares, Mother! We saw him ourselves!"

"We _did_!" Ambarto verified firmly, when his elder brothers shot the twins incredulous looks.

"Hush, small ones," Nerdanel whispered, gathering them into her arms, "It is not you I fear for." Eyes veiled, she held them close and then released them before disappearing into the kitchen. My family sat in silence until she called us to dinner.

But I stayed awake long after the changing of the lights, thinking over the many new things I had learned that day. Melkor had advised me against Nolofinwë, yet now it seemed he was upon my half-brother's side. Perhaps he was lying to one of us--but whom? Just thinking of the disgraced Vala made my head spin. I could not trust him, I decided at last.

Then who could I trust? My sons, I thought at once. Though fate did not perpetually smile upon us, I knew my sons would rally to me in a time of need, by the call of blood to like blood, if not by what love they bore me. They would defend me when the time came, if I wished it so. Even gentle Makalaurë and somber Maitimo would do so, with a bit of persuasion.

And to be my defenders, they needed. . .weapons. That was yet another strange word, known and yet unknown, emerging from the shadows at the back of my mind.

I knew that Tyelkormo and other hunters of the Eldar used weapons, to smite and maim and kill, but used them only upon mindless animals, who were soon reborn in Aman. But if such things killed animals, why not people? We were, after all, flesh and blood as well, albeit immortal if we lived free of harm, which we had thus far. I remembered making hunting weapons, javelins and swords and such, for my sons in the forge. The arms I planned to create now would need not be much different.

I laugh now, thinking back on that night, when I had promised myself that my sons and I would use our weapons only to defend, and never to deliberately kill another being out of sheer malice or wrath.

How vain that promise would prove.

I began my work the next morning, and by the following week had created a sword, made of the finest iron to be found in Aman. I presented it to Maitimo, for he was my eldest son, and came first in all things, but at first he held back, reluctant.

"I cannot take it," he murmured, eyes terrified, like those of a trapped animal, and fixed on the blade, "I will not kill. I--I do not have the stomach for it. And Mother--" I almost hesitated when I saw the blatant love glowing in Maitimo's eyes when he mentioned Nerdanel, but my sense of duty was entrenched too deeply in my heart for hesitation.

"Take it, Nelya," I urged him, extending it toward him, "I would not do this to you unless I was absolutely sure of the need." The sincerity in my voice was real, but I spoke too with the persuasive tone I used so rarely but effectively.

Maitimo's hand twitched, as if to take it, but he held back again. "I am no warrior."

"With time and training, you shall be," I assured him, and gestured for him to take the blade once more, "Nelya, why do you waver? Would you linger so when the lives of your brothers rest upon your decision? When the fate of your house hangs in the balance? You are a child no longer. You are my heir, Nelyafinwë; act like it."

That convinced him, but his hands still shook as he took the sword into his hands, face pale and grave. His dark eyes, usually so calm, shone with a terror as if he already saw the deaths that would bloody the white blade.

"It feels like part of my hand," Maitimo muttered, swallowing hard.

"It will be," I promised him, and went to return to my work.

That night, I stayed up with Nerdanel after our children went to sleep. She was unusually silent as she scrubbed the table, whisking away plates and cups with unsettling vehemence, eyes flashing grimly in the light from the fire on the hearth. Seeing her strange mood, I said nothing but sat in a chair in the corner, watching Huan settle himself by the fireplace.

"Maitimo came to me today," Nerdanel began suddenly, voice hard but quiet as she absently traced a finger along the gold filigree of a platter.

"And?" I asked, perhaps too insolently. My wife straightened, setting down the stack of plates she held, eyes burning with a fierce, indomitable light. Huan's eyes opened, his ears cocked, all traces of laziness gone. I took my prompt from the hound and did so as well.

"He had a sword," she said unwaveringly, voice still cool, but she sounded as if the word_ sword_ brought a sour taste to her mouth. "A sword he claimed that _you _had made and _given_ to him. Well?" Nerdanel demanded when I did not reply, "Did you? Why?"

"Yes," I replied coolly, "For the protection of his house."

"Protection?" Nerdanel echoed dubiously, "What do you so fear will harm our house?"

"Nerdanel, you do not understand," I told her, standing to my feet as well, "I fear that Nolofinwë and Arafinwë are preparing to usurp the throne from our family, and the words of Melkor drive us all even further apart. This is a time where we must stand unified, unbroken by rumors and lies."

Nerdanel waited through my speech to speak again, but looked as if she had wanted to interrupt several times. "Nolofinwë and Arafinwë!" Nerdanel laughed, a bitter sound, "It seems you blame them for any ill thing that befalls our family. You have been at their throats since their birth, Fëanáro! Let them be, cool your jealousy, and do not let Melkor's counsel enter your ears."

"I am not seeking counsel from that--that _monster_!" I shouted, voice rising against my will as I strode to stand across the table from her.

"Then why do I hear his words in your mouth?" She whispered, both sadly and angrily at once. Her eyes were at once downcast in shamed sorrow and delving deep into my own with a strength I could barely match. For a moment I could not say anything, mouth working soundlessly.

"Do not dare to say such things!" I cried at last, "Melkor has no welcome from me!"

"It seems otherwise," Nerdanel argued, "You would not let go of your hate for your half-kin if it meant the fate of the world. And now that Melkor goes among the Noldor, you seem more embittered than ever."

"Only because I hear word that my half-brothers are plotting to wrest the birthright of my family away from us!"

"But must you place the burden of such a duty, if even there be need for it, on the shoulders of your own _children_?" Nerdanel asked incredulously, "Have you no love for them? Would you see them deal death and blood, even if they were to die?"

"They will fight for their right to the throne, and slay any who would wrongfully seize that right! And if they die in the doing, so be it, for that death shall be an honorable one," I replied fiercely, "Aulë told me once: life is the anvil and hammer between which one is either tempered or broken. They will learn to how to earn their legacy, or I shall see them to it myself! I will not have my sons be remembered as reluctant cowards who cringed and groveled at their cousins' feet!"

"There is no honor in a warrior's death, especially one that if fought against our own people. And if we are all indeed upon an anvil, facing the hammer, remember that breaks can be mended," Nerdanel shot back, "You leap to a fate of bloodshed without thought or regret, and push your sons with you. . . Rage that has rankled long in your heart clouds your mind, Fëanáro. Think clearly."

"I _am_!" I roared, slamming my fist down on the table, with a sudden sound and a strength that made both the tableware and my wife jump. As she recovered from the shock, Nerdanel's eyes grew cold.

"For the first time in my life, I am," I added, voice lower, but her face remained emotionless.

"You are a changed man, Fëanáro son of Finwë," she said quietly but evenly, "What once burned only with an innocent desire for life now devours anything that would gainsay it. Your fire consumes you."

With that, she turned and left the kitchen, closing the door silently behind her as she went. For a moment, all I could do was stare after her, trembling with rage and furious at my own powerlessness to stop her.

"Come back!" I shouted after her, even as I turned to go to the forge and isolate myself from the world once more, "Damn your willfulness, daughter of Mahtan! Come _back_!"

Weeks and months passed, and still I labored over the creation of the weapons in my forge. But by the end of the second year since the making of my Silmarils, all my sons had helmets, shields, and swords, though I advised them to keep them hidden, until the time was right.

Each son reacted differently on his acceptance of the weapons. Makalaurë, when I rode to his house and presented him with a broadsword and a shield, was both cautious and amused, as if it were some trick I was playing on him.

"These are--for me?" He asked warily, glancing behind him to see if Márlindë was watching, "Why? Should these not be gifts for--Tyelkormo, or Carnistir?"

"I give them to you because these are dangerous times," I replied, "I will tell you when the time comes for you to use them."

Makalaurë gave me a curious but arch glance, not unlike the one his grandfather seemed to favor as well, but took the sword in one hand and the shield in another.

"And I assume I will have to practice as well," he sighed resignedly, and groaned when I nodded. "Then practice I shall," he told me brightly, forcing an cheerful smile, though as I turned to go I smiled to hear him muttering about how a bard used his words and wit as weapons, not crude things of steel and iron.

Tyelkormo took the offering of the sword with a seasoned ease, for as a hunter he had handled weapons and the like for most of his life.

"It is fairer than any I have owned," he remarked, nimbly balancing the sword on his hand to measure its quality, glancing to me with nonchalant ash-grey eyes, "Did you take especial care in the making of this one?"

"Very much so," I replied, and he smiled slightly and let it be.

Carnistir was the most eager of the sons to take up the weapons I offered him, his eyes glowing with a fierce light when he saw me coming towards him with the sheathed sword and glimmering helm in my hands. The fell light only brightened as he readily took the sword, which was alone enough to fan the embers of his delight.

"I will take good care of them, and practice everyday," he promised me solemnly.

Curufinwë accepted the sword, mail, and shield I gave him only as a gift from father to son. He had always loved me dearly and took my offerings as a reward for his devotion and a sign that I loved him as well.

Ambarussa and Ambarto were the last ones to be given the weapons, and I had put the matter off for some time, for I knew Nerdanel would surely be enraged at the supposed corruption of her most beloved sons.

So far she had watched my awarding of the arms to the elder children with chill but silent eyes, and I had hidden from her detached coldness in my forge for many nights. Now I would hide no longer.

But I knew there was fury hidden inside her cool pretense, and the twins' reception of the gifts would be when the fury would most likely be loosed. I could only hope for the best as I presented the twins with their identical shields and swords.

"Are they really for us?" Ambarto asked suspiciously when I held the weapons out to him.

"Of course they are. You may keep them as you wish, only if you will use them when I tell you to," I explained, and the twins' suspicion faltered quickly as their eyes hungrily drank in the light of Laurelin falling upon the bosses of the proud shields and the fineness of the scabbards in which the two swords lay.

"Thank you, Father," Ambarussa murmured, reaching a hand for the hilt of one of the swords. Ambarto gave his twin a reproving look, as if scolding Ambarussa for his forwardness. Ambarussa hesitated, but his hurt glance at his twin soon turned Ambarto's heart as well, and soon both brothers had swords in their hands, laughing softly and whispering excitedly to each other. I smiled at their eagerness, but as my eyes strayed upwards, I saw Nerdanel in the doorway, frozen like a startled doe, the hamper of laundry she was holding forgotten.

Her mouth fell open in shock, grey eyes darting between the adamant blades and the delighted faces of the twins. My smile faded, dreading her response. She just pursed her lips, wiping her eyes absently with a shaking hand, and made to leave, but I still winced. Sometimes silence was the heaviest blow of all.

Ambarto turned and caught a glimpse of her, and his face went pale with surprise, then flushed with reluctant shame. "Here," he mumbled quickly, eyes averted as he held out the sword to me, "I do not want it."

Ambarussa wavered, but then offered me his sword as well. "Me neither."

Nerdanel's receding shadow hesitated in the hall, and I could almost hear her anticipation.

"They are my gift to you, little ones," I replied, looking not at the twins but to where Nerdanel stood, clenching my fists and bracing myself as if for assault, "Keep them."

I exited the room hastily, not looking at Nerdanel as I did so, leaving the twins grim and pale-faced, staring at the swords and shields I had left in their hands.

Needless to say, the days to follow after the twins' receipt of the weapons were cold and empty. The sons seemed to recognize the hard tension between Nerdanel and myself, and they too grew quiet and chary of their words. Both their arguments and laughter were silenced, swallowed up by the deathly, indifferent stillness. When I could take the chill silence no longer, I rode to my father's house, seeking counsel and comfort.

He led me to his councilroom, where we could speak in private, and listened long to my words, for long it took me to tell the entire account of the estrangement of my wife from me, and my throat went dry not long after I finished. After Finwë sent a servant for some spiced wine, he turned to me, face sad and grave.

"Somehow, Fëanáro, I knew this would happen," he told me solemnly, "Nerdanel has a fiery spirit not unlike yours--weaker, perchance, but nonetheless just as passionate and eager to live. Neither of you likes to back down from an argument, nor are you willing to admit your wrongs. If you had married but a gentler and more compliant wife, less would you quarrel."

"But I love Nerdanel!" I said fiercely, "If I had known, I would have saved her from this fate."

"No, you would not," Finwë replied firmly, "For exactly the reason you say so now."

The servant entered, bearing a tray with wine and two goblets, and let us take what we needed of it before leaving. Finwë looked back to me.

"Fëanáro," he began, eyes not leaving my face, "All things pass, and so shall this shadow from your family. And, with hope," he added in a murmur, "From my people as well."

I set my cup down too loudly, and it clanged sharply on the wooden arm of the chair. "What is ill with the Noldor?"

Finwë sighed, eyes sad, as if the very thought disheartened him. "For the first time in my reign, I see doubt and mistrust among my people. Friends of old quarrel like bitter enemies, and even families are rent asunder as the wheat beneath a scythe. I hear strange rumors too, of weapons and tools of war."

My gaze wavered at this, but I struggled to keep my face steady. As I protected my family with the making of the weapons, so did I protect my father.

But others were making weapons as well. . .?

Finwë, if he saw me flinch, kept speaking as if he had not. "I am sorry, my dearest son, that this distrustful, gluttonous ruin is the kingdom I shall soon have to bequeath to you. But there is nothing, it seems, that I can do to heal the wounds the Noldor inflict upon themselves."

"You are the greatest ruler I know, Father," I assured him firmly, "You shall make things well, I know it."

"I would I could believe you, and I shall accept your praise, but I know not if I deserve it," Finwë said wistfully, then smiled at me fondly. "I am holding a feast tomorrow night. I know my offer comes late and informally, but will you come, with the Silmarils?"

"I shall," I replied fervently, "With the Silmarils and my sons--I cannot say Nerdanel will come--and moreover a gift for you, Father."

Finwë's smile grew, loving and kind. If a hand of shadow there was that hung over our people, it had not touched him. Yet.

"I will be honored by your presence, Fëanáro."

Author's Note: 

I'm a little frazzled; school starts on Monday and just _updating _my two multi-chapter stories now seems an awful exertion. Please forgive if this is short and a little disjointed. **First of all, _Fire_ has received 101 reviews! Wowwwww! Thank you all sooo much! **

What can I say, **Unsung Heroine**, I happen to adore Aegnor (I cry like a baby every time I read the _Athrabeth_) and simply _had_ to make him stand out a little. :-) My favoritism is always blatant. As for the question you raised about the Age of the Trees and Elves aging. . . hm, never even paused to consider it. Or maybe I did, but just refused to consider it because of the math (never my strong forte). I can't even begin to really comprehend it. (shakes fist at sky) CURSE YOU, TOLKIEN, FOR BEING SO CONFUSING! Hm, baffling. . . what about the Sindar and the Elves that stayed in Endor? Would they take longer to mature? I am so bewildered. Can I get back to you on that one?

**Mizamour**, thanks as always for your constant support. I'm glad I could do the Silmarils' creation justice.

Thank you, **Priestess of Dan**. Reading all 26 chapters certainly makes you a hero in my eyes! Hope you stay on board. :-)

Hasty hugs for everyone,

Blodeuedd


	29. Chapter TwentyNine: Nolofinwë

_Chapter Twenty-nine: Nolofinwë_

When I returned home, Tyelkormo waited outside for me, a broad smile on his face and Huan at his side.

"What is it?" I asked at once, studying his expression with the careful knowledge gained from many years of fatherhood.

"Come out back," he answered simply, reckless grin growing, "There is a surprise waiting for you in the fields."

"Is this a good surprise?" I muttered, following him around the house to the back.

"Look," Tyelkormo replied, voice delighted. I followed his gaze to the small field beyond our garden, where the horses often grazed. No horse grazed there now, as far as I could tell, but then I saw an enormous stallion, standing motionless in the midst of the lush green grass, his ears cocked and his dark eyes alert at our coming.

The stallion was as dark as midnight, with pride written in every graceful, flawlessly muscled line of his body. There was a sense of nobleness and dignity to him that pervaded more than his massive size and made him beautifully different from other horse I had seen.

I realized my mouth was hanging open, and quickly shut it. Tyelkormo glanced over at me, eyes bright with hopeful pride.

"His name is Rokkolaurë," he began quietly.

"But he is not golden," I argued, stating the obvious in my foolish amazement.

As if to prove otherwise, the horse flicked his feathery black tail uncertainly, otherwise unmoving, and I caught a radiant sheen of gold in the dark filaments, a brilliant golden luster that was reflected in the hairs of his glossy mane and in the delicate shapes of his powerful form.

Tyelkormo smiled again, and continued. "I managed to get away from the guards on the walls today to meet Oromë. After the day's work, Oromë gave him to me, but Rokkolaurë was too fine a steed for such as myself, so I thought I would give him, in turn, to you. He is still wild, but I will tame him for you myself, if you wish it."

"You honor me, Turkafinwë," I told him, smiling and embracing my son, "You shall tame him, and I will love you the better for it. I will think of you each time I ride him."

That night I worked late in the forge, devising my gift to Finwë, and something more, for the Silmarils to be kept safe and close to me at the feast. As I did so, I thought carefully upon what my father had said earlier.

If what he had said was true, the Noldor were losing their innocence, their tender, unknowing regard of the world. Why us, though? The Teleri and Vanyar were, as far as I knew, still just as pure and guileless as we had been. But we Noldor had always been less willing to be captivated by the fairness of the world surrounding us. We took the beauty we saw and turned it back upon the earth tenfold for the power of our skills. Even before my birth, Noldorin smiths had been making jewels and other crafts that few, even of their own people, could surpass.

But now our elevated sense of the world was being twisted, manipulated, so that it became distorted into not a gift, but a sin. Because of our delicately sensitive awareness, we were now too alert, too mistrusting. We were turning on ourselves, attacking our own people. And I could guess who had brought about this strange unrest.

Melkor seemed to spread lies everywhere he went, and sowed seeds of discord even in my heart. I saw no wrong in suspecting him. But also, because of the prejudices of my own past, I suspected Nolofinwë as well. He might have planned this strife so that, in the turmoil of civil war, he could seize the crown quietly but effectively. Then he could calm the skirmishes and the storms, and play the role of the sympathetic king, seeking to aid his people from the hurts he himself had dealt. He would become King of the Noldor, Lord of Tirion, and--as ever--beloved of the Valar. As usual, the thought of Nolofinwë infuriated me almost to the point of blind rage.

"I will not let him," I growled aloud, hammer missing my work and slamming down upon the anvil with an angry clang, "I will _not_!"

As I had expected, Nerdanel told me, as shortly and succinctly as she could, that she had no desire to go to the feast. Thus I took only my sons, bidding them to keep their swords at home, but not out of their minds.

It was only when we arrived at the gates of my father's house that I took the Silmarils from their casket. I had forged a circlet of the finest silver last night, and set the three jewels within it, so I could wear them bound about my brow at all times. Then, with a curt nod to my awestruck sons, we entered the home.

There were more people at the feast than I would have liked, but for my father, I was willing to do anything. Finwë saw me at once and crossed over, smiling as he gave me a quick embrace.

"You came," he exclaimed delightedly, embracing each of his grandsons as well, then looked at them all and murmured, "How they all have grown."

"I am sorry you could not see them sooner, but yes, here are all of them--the unwed ones, at least," I replied, grinning as I felt the eyes of the guests fall upon the Silmarils on my brow.

"Any time at all to see my grandchildren is a pleasure," Finwë said, nodding fondly at them.

"Here is the gift I promised you," I told him, holding out the box I had brought. Finwë looked up at me, clearly surprised, and took it. I could not help but feel a thrill of anticipation as he opened the sachet.

Finwë's dark eyes widened as he took out a silver circlet, not unlike the one I currently wore, but the one my father held was ornately worked and inlaid with cold sapphires and clear diamonds, which caught the light of the room and glowed with a light unrivalled save for the Silmarils.

"This work surpasses my original crown," Finwë breathed, looking at me with awed eyes, "I thank you, my dear, skillful son. You serve your father-name well."

Suffused in pride, I bowed my head. "My gift was humbly offered, and humbly taken. You are welcome, Father."

After that, my family and I mingled into the crowd. I received many questions about the Silmarils, and reveled in the admiration and delight I beheld in the faces of the throng.

"Uncle Fëanáro!" Someone cried, and I looked up, unused to the strange title of uncle. Who would call me that? I soon got my answer.

Aikanáro, older now, but not much changed from the dark, mirthful boy he had been when we met, all but ran toward me, followed by a familiar-looking girl with a head of radiant golden hair.

"So that is what you did with my phosphor-light," he sighed admiringly, looking at the Silmarils with wonder, "Angaráto and I heard about the Silmarils and we knew right away that that was where it must have gone."

"If my thanks were not enough before," I told him gratefully, "I thank you again, son of Arafinwë. So how is the rest of your family?"

"Angaráto would have been here, and he would have loved to see you again," Aikanáro replied eagerly, "But he is off with Artaresto and Findaráto climbing the Mindon. We have never been to Tirion before, at least not that we can remember, so it is wonderful to be here. It is so different from Alqualondë. So much louder and alive. The Teleri are too quiet!"

I laughed, and Aikanáro laughed too. "I must agree with you upon that, Aikanáro. So what brings you hither, so far from the Haven?"

"My father wanted to meet with Uncle Nolofinwë and see Grandfather again," Aikanáro explained, smiling so broadly it should have been impossible to speak.

"Why?" I asked, reminded of my suspicions.

Aikanáro looked uncomfortable, and the nearly ever-present glow of laughter abandoned his eyes.

"Well, Nolofinwë sent him a letter a few weeks ago--" He began.

"Aikanáro!" The girl cut in abruptly, voice a reproving hiss, "Father said not to tell anyone!" Aikanáro looked more ill at ease than ever, and fell silent for a moment.

"All is well," I lied hastily, though my mind was working furiously over these tidings, "You need not tell me further if that is Arafinwë's wish."

"And we shall not," the girl said evenly, eyes gazing reproachfully on Aikanáro.

"Artanis--" Aikanáro protested feebly, and I recognized the name at once.

"Artanis?" I echoed, and she nodded reluctantly. Now I knew who she was. Artanis was much older than when I had last seen her as well--tall and fair, she moved with the grace of a woman rather than the unwieldy awkwardness of youth. She also had the slim leanness of one who was seldom inert, and looked ready to run and leap at a moment's notice. Her hair was the same splendid color of ripe wheat, steeped in the finest shades of lustrous gold, but her deep blue gaze, while given the potential to laugh and sparkle, was fixed on me and tight with cold unease.

"You remember Fëanáro Curufinwë, Artanis," Aikanáro prompted slowly, "He saved you from a spooked horse."

"I remember, and thank you," Artanis told me, her smile never reaching her eyes.

I would have lost patience with her audacity if not for the fact my eyes could not leave her hair. It seemed that Laurelin's light had been captured within her tresses, not unlike it had in my Silmarils, though in the form of brightly lit filaments, not light. Perhaps if I could only. . .

Suddenly given the spark of an idea, I bowed my head and replied, "You are welcome. Artanis, you may remember that I am a smith and craftsman, and now I myself cannot forget it, for as I look upon you I feel driven to ask of you one thing."

"And what is this one thing?" She asked suspiciously, scrutinizing me closely and warily.

"Might I have one tress of your hair?" I blurted quickly, not wanting to waste time with flowery hints.

"I--" Artanis looked taken aback, and she glanced at her brother as if demanding help. Aikanáro nodded, but Artanis appeared distraught at the idea. I saw clearly into her mind, and knew that diplomacy commanded she say yes, but her heart, in its pride, would not allow it, for she appeared to dislike me for no reason I could clearly see.

Wavering, she returned her gaze to mine briefly, and looked terrified, as if by something she saw in my eyes. I blinked, wondering what frightened her so, but I could read no answer in her face.

"I--I would," Artanis awkwardly stammered out at last, "But I cannot. I refuse," she continued, prattling on but looking more and more convinced with every word, "I will not."

"Not even but one hair?" I bargained, not wanting to give up now.

Artanis shook her head, and the motion was adamant. Aikanáro looked shocked.

"Artanis! It is a mere trifle," he whispered, "Just give him one strand. What does it mean to you?"

"More than you know," she replied coolly. Aikanáro glared at her, then turned to me, his cheerful merriment gone.

"Ask her, Uncle, just once more," he urged.

"Very well," I sighed and organized my thoughts. "Artanis, will you not give me some of your tresses?"

"No." The reply was unfaltering, and I shrugged at Aikanáro, though the loss of such wondrous material, lingering only out of reach, was a dull ache in my heart.

"If you insist," I told Artanis, and left her to the chastisement from her brother that was sure to come.

As I turned away, acknowledging the comments of the people upon the Silmarils, I heard amid the buzz of meaningless conversation a compelling strain.

"Mortal and stunted they are, and weak and unsightly beyond our ken, and yet the Valar intend to confer upon them a great gift of lands and power. . ."

My attention caught, I turned toward the speaker. I saw he was a copper-haired young Noldo, tall and strong but with a sickly, feverish light in his dark eyes.

"Of whom do you speak?" I asked, and the Elda's mouth twisted with wry disgust as he replied.

"The barbarian Secondborn, the Atani, born to grow old and die, who are as scrawny children in compare to our people."

I regarded him dubiously, though something in his words begged to be called truth. There were few who were listening to the young Elda, but those who did shared the impassioned, eager glimmer in his eyes.

"The Atani?" I echoed, "And what is this _growing old_?"

"Their spirits are as weak as their bodies," the Eldaexplained, face filled with disdain for his subject, "The Atani--men and women alike--become frail and infirm as they reach little more than a hundred years of age, and the housing of their spirits decays as they grow feeble and forgetful, until their spirits leave them and they abide no longer in the circles of this world."

"Do they go to Mandos?" asked a woman beside me, her blue eyes wide with hungry amazement.

The copper-haired Noldo shook his head. "No. They are so pitiful that even the Valar do not accept them in the afterlife. It is below us to know what dark shore their wretched spirits go to when they die."

"Why have we not heard of these. . .people before?" I asked, curious yet sickened by the thirsty fervor of the Eldar surrounding me.

The Eldalooked about uncertainly, expression frightened, then continued in hushed tones. "The Valar are jealous of our power--of our potential to stand higher even then they in the eyes of Eru."

The blue-eyed woman nodded, looking surprised that I did not know this. "They seek to keep us here forever," she added, "to contain our might, and let the mortals, who fall so easily under their sway, rule the vast and bountiful lands--far across the Sea--in their name."

"We are prisoners, you see," a sallow-skinned Noldo continued softly, "Prisoners of those who we could so easily overthrow."

"Who told you this?" I pressed. Something in their words struck a chord in me, urging me to believe, and believe I nearly did, for these thoughts were not entirely unfamiliar to my mind.

The coppery-haired Eldasmiled, a wan, frightening smile. "Melkor."

I started back in disbelief. These words--so like those I had heard so often in my thoughts--were Melkor's. Was Nerdanel right? Was I really Melkor's pawn even while I protested otherwise? I thought I had cursed the Valar alone. But now--it was too much to think about.

Turning away from the group, I caught Maitimo's eye and called out, "We are going now, Nelya. Go get your brothers."

Not even bothering to say a farewell to my father, my sons and I left as suddenly as we had come.

I could not interpret many of the thoughts that ran through my head in the days that followed, but disbelief ran strong and prevalent among them.

Also often in my mind was the notion of these mortal people, the Atani. My mother's death had inflicted a harsh wound that still marred my family; how could these Atani survive this awful thing as a daily occurrence? But I still remembered the mention of the Valar's imprisonment of us, and I now thought I knew why--so these strange people could reign over lands far beyond these shores. Lands that could have been ours. Was it true then, this idea of our caging by the Valar, which had surfaced so long ago in my thoughts?

A few years later, in the shadowy hours before the mingling of the lights, I went to watch Tyelkormo training Rokkolaurë, seeking conversation and solace, if not an explanation to the strange things I had heard. Carnistir was also there, perched on the fence with Huan at his feet, both watching his brother work with the massive stallion, but Maitimo and the twins had chosen to remain inside, helping their mother with dinner.

"Have you heard anything unusual in the city, when your mother sends you on errands?" I asked them, sitting on the fence beside Carnistir.

"Things are often unusual in the city now," Tyelkormo remarked, producing a bridle and letting Rokkolaurë inspect it.

Carnistir nodded. "People talk less, and act like everyone is hiding something from them. But when they do speak, they often talk about Nolofinwë--and about you."

"What do they say?" I asked. This was exactly what I had wanted as a response.

"They say the two sons of Indis gather often to speak together, at strange hours and about strange things, and the Valar come to counsel them," Tyelkormo explained, then reprimanded, "Hush! No!" as Rokkolaurë tossed his proud head and danced away, refusing to be bridled.

"For what reason would the Valar be speaking to them?"

Tyelkormo shook his head grimly, but Carnistir replied solemnly, "People say the Valar are discontented with the Silmarils remaining in Tirion, and are helping Nolofinwë and Arafinwë to assume rule of the Noldor to see them dwell in Valmar, for Nolofinwë and his brother would never deny the Powers what is to them such a small trifle."

"My Silmarils?" Rage welled up in the gaping wound Carnistir's words had caused. "They would take my Silmarils from me? The Valar lent no hand in their making! I made them of my own volition! I would not let them be taken from me under threat of bloodshed or doom!"

"But those are the rumors, Father," Carnistir told me, "And rumors may well become truth, in these strange days. I never trusted the children of Indis. Not at all."

I nodded, then ruffled his dark hair affectionately, as if he were still a small boy. "I need never worry where your faith lies, Morifinwë."

More years passed, and--as I suppose I should have expected--Melkor came again to my house. This time, though, I knew what to expect and steeled myself from the moment Tyelkormo came into the forge to tell me that he had asked to see me. Grinding my teeth, I removed my sooty apron, and took my sword and its belt from a secret cabinet hidden in the shadows of the smithy. I had been practicing with the sword often of late--with my sons and occasionally my father, though he was often loath to do so--and I felt urged to keep it at my side now, facing the corrupted Vala.

"I thought I told you never to come back," I snarled before he could open his mouth.

"I thought you had perhaps overcome your ill temper from that day, Curufinwë," he replied, a false sympathy, sweeter than honey, dripping from his voice and his lightless eyes.

"Well, I have not," I muttered, taking a step forward, "Go away."

I was fixing him with a look that would have made any of my sons quail in fear, but Melkor coolly stood his ground. His black eyes strayed to the sword sheathed at my side, and, for some reason, smiled.

"Do you feel the need to bear such a mighty weapon, Curufinwë?" He asked, face a paragon of innocent curiosity.

"It is not your place to inquire about such things," I snapped impatiently, "My business with weapons is my own."

"I am sorry if I have offended you. I only wish to say that you have quite good reason to carry a sword with you. Finwë Nolofinwë and his brother--"

"Do not call him Finwë!" I growled, furious.

"Forgive me--Nolofinwë and his brother may well soon bring their plans to seize the crown to reality."

Again I felt that strange compulsion to listen to him, and take his counsel, and overcame it, but it seemed that each time I had it had been a longer and harder struggle to do so.

"Go away," I said again, though his words stung deeper than he knew. Surely--surely Nolofinwë and Arafinwë would know their place better. My assumptions were small solace, and my spirit remained restless.

"If my presence brings insult to you, Curufinwë, I shall go," Melkor sighed, both groveling and standing tall at once, and turned to leave. I watched him go, my mind suddenly fraught with opposing emotions. Just once. Yes, just once.

"Wait." I had to have him answer something. "Melkor. Do the Atani really exist?"

Melkor turned back around, his pale features guileless and truthful. "Yes."

Strangely enough, Melkor's brief words unsettled me so badly that afterward I could not find comfort in much of anything. After dinner, I rode to Finwë's house, seeking, as I often had, guidance and ease in his presence.

When I arrived, we went as usual to his councilroom, which was bathed in silver from Telperion's glow. For a few moments I only watched the shimmering light dance across the floor of the room, knowing my Silmarils could outdo the light of the elder Tree, so feeble and bland in comparison.

"What reason do you come for now, my son?" Finwë asked, breaking through my thoughts.

"I am troubled," I admitted, almost afraid to say more.

"As are many these days," he assured me gently, dark eyes soft with love.

"Have you heard about the Atani? The Secondborn?" I asked suddenly, desperately, "They say the Valar keep us here to contain our vigor while the mortal people rule the lands beneath the sway of the Powers."

Finwë nodded, face grim. "Why do you ask?"

"I--I have thought long on it. If the truth is known, why should we wait here? We should go forth, and claim what is within our power to take."

"Are you not content with this life?" My father asked. I shook my head.

"Not now. It is as I have ever known--the Valar are our jailers," I replied, my voice growing more and more fervent, "I knew something was amiss! They will keep us here like docile lapdogs, content to lie at their feet and idle away the long years at their beck and call."

Finwë's face grew sober and troubled, but his expression remained impartial. "Such words are not said here, my son," he began gently, but I would not let myself see otherwise than the truth before my eyes.

"Then someone must say them!" I stood to my feet, despairing that I would never make my father understand. "Father, someone must lead us to the summits of our power! It is in us, you know it. We satisfy ourselves with the least of our abilities and with the empty promises of the Valar, when we could rule realms that could encircle Aman thrice over, build cities that would make Tirion seem a simple village!" My voice grew quieter, but I still met my father's gaze fiercely. "You are their King, Father. Make the Noldor see."

Finwë shook his head dourly, a sad disappointment on his face. "Curufinwë, understand this. I was there when the Eldar awoke by the starry waters of Cuiviénen. I dwelt for a time in the lands that could encircle Aman thrice over. There is nothing there for us that cannot be equaled here. Let the Atani rule their realms. I have no desire to overthrow them."

"I will lead them myself!" I protested, "If no other shall, I will rise up against the Valar and go to the lands across the Sea with my people at my back!"

"Such thoughts require counsel from my subjects, if they will even consider them," Finwë replied slowly and somberly, as if reluctant to speak, "I love you and feel that all voices in Tirion must be given ear, so I will gather a counsel in the next two days' time, of all the lords in the city. You may come, if you would do so, and see who else will hear your words."

"I shall, Father," I promised, then added as an afterthought, "Thank you."

I was content as I rode home, for my father had heeded my speech, but also remorseful, for I felt as though I had forced him into a fate he found unpleasant. But through all my turmoil of emotions, I was making myself ready for the audience that awaited me two days later.

_Chapter Thirty: Ezellohar_

On the morning of the great council, I felt again the need to go with my sword upon my side, for a cold thrilling of fate told me I would have need of it soon. So I went indeed with my sword at my belt, girt in my finest dark blue tunic, which was embroidered with three stars at the cuffs and across the chest, and bearing under one arm one of my adamant silver helmets, crowned with crimson plumes and worked in fine gold.

Both Carnistir and Tyelkormo begged to go with me when they saw my purpose, but I refused both of them. I would speak alone before my father and the lords of Tirion. Had I not crafted the Silmarils alone as well? Perhaps solitude was a source of good fortune for me. I left for my father's hall with high spirits, confident that all would go well.

But when I came to the house of my childhood, beneath the tall shadow of the Mindon, I already heard voices emerging from the great hall. Furious that I should be so forgotten, I strode to the doorway leading to the hallway, but then stopped dead, all the enraged words that had risen so readily to my lips emerging stillborn. For among the many voices, Nolofinwë's had risen, and all others fell silent.

"King and father, will you not restrain the pride of my brother, Curufinwë, who is called the Spirit of Fire, all too truly? By what right does he summon councils and speak for all our people, as if he were King?" Nolofinwë emerged into my sight, a tall pillar of golden strength, and he continued on, voice heedless but steadily strong, "It was you who long ago spoke before the Eldar, bidding them to accept the Valar's summons to these land. It was you, and no other, who led the Noldor upon the long road through the perils of Middle-earth to the light of Eldamar. If you shall not repent of it now, at least you have two sons to honor your words."

Wrath as I had never felt before furled me, and I strode with long, brutal steps into the hall, to stand before my father, putting on my helm as I did so. I should have known. Nolofinwë was influencing my father as I never had. Melkor had been right--if he continued to wield such control, he would indeed be King before anything could be done. I was the eldest child, the firstborn and only son of Míriel, and rightful heir to the throne of the Noldor. I would not stand quietly by and let a power-hungry youth manipulate my father.

An awed silence settled over all who stood gathered there, and for a moment no words could be said. I glanced over at my half-brother.

Nolofinwë stood tall beside me, face free of shame or fear, his hair framing his face in a radiant halo, his grey eyes flashing like proud steel. He took in the sight of my sword without visible reaction, then turned his eyes back to my father, head held high. Not wanting to be outdone, I looked to my father as well, and it was I who spoke next.

"So it is, Father, even as I guessed," I said, speaking to my father but loud enough for all to hear, "My half-brother would be before me with my father, in this as in all other matters." The silent shock on Finwë's face only kindled my rage, and I drew my sword in a fury, turning to my brother and extending the blade until it hovered only a short distance from his throat. "Get you gone, and take your due place!"

In the silence that followed, I imagined running the sword through Nolofinwë a thousand times for numerous reasons, but Nolofinwë remained resilient and emotionless. He regarded me quietly for a moment, then bowed briefly but politely to Finwë and left the chamber, his footsteps fading to echoes in the hall.

"Not this time," I muttered, so softly only I could hear, "No. Not this time, Ingoldo." My anger still consuming me, I followed after him, at a pace so swift it was only a handbreadth from running. Servants that passed me in the corridor cowered at the fury that pounded with the hot blood through my veins, at the fell glimmer in my eyes. I caught up with Nolofinwë at the open door of my father's house. He was halfway through the gate when I came at last to his side.

Unable to contain my blind anger any longer, I gripped him by the shoulder with one hand and raised my still-bared blade to linger over his heart. For a moment, I realized Nolofinwë was a boy no longer, nor even the young man I had quarreled with before my father so long ago. He was a man now, with broad shoulders speaking of strength to rival my own, and he looked me squarely in the eye. If we were to come to blows now, I knew suddenly, it would be only my sword and the slight advantage of great strength from years of blacksmithing that would save me.

"See, half-brother," I hissed, "This is sharper than your treacherous tongue." The slightest tremor of fear marred Nolofinwë's face, and I smiled in grim delight to have broken his emotionless indifference, but his eyes remained upon my own, and looked not at all at the blade that was so close to sundering his fate from the rest of the Eldar. "Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father," I continued, voice still quiet but full of venomous hate, "and maybe this blade shall rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be the master of thralls."

Nolofinwë's silence began to enrage me. Was he not afraid? Would he not heed my words? Heart pounding loud in my ears, I gave the sword just the slightest thrust, and the tip stabbed eagerly into Nolofinwë's flesh, but went no further than to deal him the slightest injury. Blood bloomed over the breast of his fine tunic, but Nolofinwë still said nothing, meeting my gaze with his cool grey eyes.

"Keep that as a reminder of what happens to those who dare to attempt taking the place of Fëanáro Curufinwë in his father's heart," I remarked bitterly, releasing my grip on his shoulder and drawing the tip of the bloodied blade from his breast, "May it mark you forever. Do not forget your place again."

Nolofinwë raised an untrembling hand to his chest, and felt the slight wound there, his fingers coming away stained with red blood. Both he and I had never seen the blood of another Eldabefore, and we both trembled for a moment, before we remembered ourselves. Nolofinwë looked at me with inscrutable eyes that seemed almost betrayed, then strode off into the crowds that were gathered about the square before my father's house. All was still, for all had heard my words, and all saw the blood that tainted my silver blade.

I walked home in an almost drunken haze, too intoxicated with the realness of what I had just done to return the awed, frightened gaze of the Noldor watching me or to even sheathe my sword. Despite myself, my shoulders slumped and I could barely lift my head, and the proud, arrogant fire that had suffused me only moments ago seeped out of me. I could do nothing to stop it, let alone much else. My eyes wandered between the cobblestone road before my feet and the bloodstained sword in my hands, but my mind was numb and distant, unseeing.

I had just willfully injured another Elda. I had threatened my own half-brother. The fact that I was surely doomed for my crime was not a new one to my mind. Now that the rage had left me and the blindness of anger had gone, I knew I would pay, and in no small measure.

The rebellious part of me, the small part that still endured, still shrieked Nolofinwë's words in my ear, reminding me of my purposes. I wavered between remaining unrepentant or begging the Valar for forgiveness, and the decision I had to make made me feel like a powerless child, which irritated me further.

I came to my house, but for a moment only stood there, looking at it with a weary and sorrowing eye. Where would I go after this?

My children welcomed me eagerly at the door, and I collapsed into my chair by the hearth the instant I entered the room.

"What happened?" Tyelkormo asked, pushing a glowering Carnistir towards the cabinet to get me a goblet and spiced wine.

I buried my head in my hands, letting the sword fall to the floor with a clatter, and the twins, who had been approaching me, leapt back with simultaneous yelps at the noise.

"By the Powers, you look exhausted," Carnistir fussed, nearly stumbling over the sword as he handed the goblet to me, "It is almost as if you had-" He looked down at the blade at his feet, seeing the blood as well, and never finished the sentence. I stared into the wine, too enervated to drink even the smallest swallow. For a long time, we remained like that--my sons waiting eagerly for my words, words that would never come.

"What is going on?" Nerdanel entered the room, dusting her hands on her apron, then looked to me. "Back so soon?" Her tone was concerned, but not worried or frightened in the least.

"What happened?" Maitimo, trailing his mother, came in as well, his face almost a duplicate of his mother's for its indifferent curiosity.

"I--" I began, but there was a sharp knock at the door. Carnistir and Nerdanel both went for it at once.

"Father, why is your sword red?" Ambarussa asked quietly in the awkward, fatigued silence.

"It is blood," I muttered, finally taking a sip of the wine.

"Blood?" Ambarussa and Ambarto echoed as one.

"Hush," Maitimo murmured quickly, voice uneasy, but Tyelkormo, seeing I was too tired to carry on a conversation, quickly cut in.

"Remember when we hunt together?" He prompted the twins, as he sat cross-legged at my feet, "When we kill the animal, there is blood on the spear and on Huan's muzzle. That is blood, brothers. When a being loses its blood in abundance, it loses its life as well, and its spirit leaves the house of the body."

"I remember," Ambarussa told Tyelkormo, slightly disdainful at being treated like a forgetful child.

"Did you kill an animal?" Ambarto asked me solemnly, but never got an answer, for Carnistir and his mother returned at that moment.

"Oromë is here," Carnistir informed us, eyes dark, "He--"

"He must be here for me," Tyelkormo said excitedly, leaping to his feet, "I will--"

"No," Nerdanel interrupted quietly, glancing at me, "He is here for your father."

Against my will, the hand I used to hold the goblet trembled, but I hid the fear quickly, lest my sons see it. If this was the last they were to see me, they would see a father who went to his fate without dread.

I stood to my feet, setting the cup aside, and nodded briefly to Nerdanel. To my amazement, I saw for the first time in ages a deep pity and worry in her eyes, and her brow was furrowed in anxiety. In the moment of darkness, I felt a brief solace flare up in my heart, like the last blaze of a dying flame, and I smiled at her, briefly, gratefully, then went to the door.

Oromë stood there, his golden hair glimmering in the evening light, and he shifted his weight upon the tall javelin he held in one hand. Behind him were two horses, both a shining, snowy white that was almost blinding to look upon. He bowed his head gravely when he saw me, and I did so as well, though a distrustful misgiving rose in me. I knew why the Vala was here, but I did not know what he would do now.

"I greet you, son of Finwë," Oromë said, his voice as deep and rich as the sound of the hunter's horn he followed so eagerly.

"And I you, Oromë," I replied. The Vala's Laurelin-browned face remained kind and solemn, but there was no pity in his expression. He knew well his errand.

"Fëanáro Curufinwë, I am come to take you to Valmar and the judgment of the Valar concerning your actions." The tone and firm words left no space to weave through, and I knew I was truly snared.

"I shall go with you," I replied calmly, trying not to sound like a man who had just received summons to the terrible doom I faced, "How long will this journey take?"

Oromë smiled proudly, and patted the muscled shoulder of one of the white horses. "My steeds shall see us there within two days, Fëanáro." I noticed he did not mention when or if I would return.

"When do we leave?"

"Now, if it pleases you." The last few words were clearly an afterthought, and not intended to be taken seriously. Oromë would take me if it meant trussing and bagging me like any other game bird, so long as he was able to bring me to the table of the hungry Valar. Biting back another shudder, I took the bridle of the horse he offered me and mounted. Oromë mounted as well, then spurred his horse and took the lead. Without a glance back to my house, I followed him, ready to face whatever awaited me.

The horses of Oromë were indeed as swift as he claimed, and we came to the gates of Valmar long before the changing of the lights on the second day. The ride was silent, and I used the time to let myself think, carefully considering my situation. I even began planning my speech before the Valar in my head, if they would hear me before dealing punishment. Surely they would grant me their attention for enough time for me to twist my way out of this. They would not let the voice of a son of Finwë go unheard. I convinced myself of this time and time again, until we were within the Valar's city, where doubt again overtook me.

"Where do we go?" I asked Oromë as we wove through the bright streets, which were mockingly luminous even through the grim shadows of my heart.

"To the Ezellohar, Fëanáro," the Vala replied without a glance back.

The Ezellohar. My body tensed with fright so badly that my mount tossed its proud white head, confused at my suddenly faltering horsemanship. Quickly, I suppressed my horror, and gently nudged my horse on, but the thought of the Ezellohar continued to drift through my head.

The Valar only gathered at the Ezellohar for the only the most crucial of moments in their reign; they had summoned their council there when my father had gone seeking the return of Míriel from the halls of Mandos. What did they plan to do with me?

The last arrogant, defiantly quivering part of me rose up again, telling me it was all Nolofinwë's fault, that it was he who had goaded me into wrath, but I shook it away. I would not let anger cloud my thoughts so soon after it had ruined my life. Even the notion of my half-brother would not shake me.

I straightened in the saddle as the Ezellohar came into sight, golden with the clear light of Laurelin. Many people now gathered in the streets to watch me, but I held my head high, maintaining a regal manner despite the fact that, no doubt, rumor had spread of the matter that brought me here. I would go to my fate as a prince, a smith, an heir, for such I was, and, come what may, I would keep that fate honorable.

When we came to the foot of the great green hill, Oromë and I dismounted, and Oromë took the two horses and led them away to graze. Then he returned and ushered me up the rounded, grassy slopes, to the foot of the Trees. In the lush meadow that grew in the Trees' divine shade, fourteen chairs made of the finest silver glass had been set, and the Valar were seated in all of these but one, which Oromë quickly took, completing their number. Behind them stood several Maiar and Eldar, but they were not the merry, chattering folk I had seen when I had presented them with the Silmarils--their faces were somber and forbidding, and the light in their eyes had darkened.

Apart from this sober group stood a smaller gathering of Eldar, who I was quick to recognize as Noldor. But their faces were not cool with somberness; instead they looked about with hateful, sullen eyes, glowering at any whose gaze lingered to long upon them. Among their numbers I recognized the copper-haired Elda, the follower of Melkor, with whom I had exchanged brief words at Finwë's feast, and I knew this band must be the ones who had openly followed the disgraced Vala, and had been summoned here also for their irreverence.

I did not stare at the disciples of Melkor for long, for suddenly Manwë straightened in his chair and commanded, "Step forth, Fëanáro Curufinwë."

Without thought, I obeyed, walking slowly but surely to the center, encircled by the chairs of the Valar. The gaze of fourteen angered Powers was too much for even me, and I lowered my eyes soon after my approach, doing all I could not to curl up and weep with dread.

"Fëanáro son of King Finwë," Manwë announced in his resonant voice, speaking to me but loud enough for all to hear, "You are summoned to the Ring of Doom to answer for your crimes. You will answer all questions asked of you with naught but the truth."

"I shall," I mumbled, intimidated by the grieved disappointment contained in the lord of the Valar's voice. For a moment, there was silence, then Aulë stirred and spoke.

"Is it true then, Prince Fëanáro," he asked, and I hung my head, for even a glimpse from the corner of my eye of my former mentor's distress would have been enough to make me collapse in guilt, "That you spoke against the Valar in defiance and arrogance, disdaining our rules and the decisions made in our reign?"

I kept silent for a moment, but knew I had to answer. "Yes," I admitted numbly.

"And is it true," Lórien continued, taking over from Aulë, who had buried his head in his hands in dismay, "That you inflicted a wound upon your half-brother, the Prince Nolofinwë, with a blade that none of us here had countenanced you to make?"

"I did," I replied softly, rubbing my temple with a weary hand. The truth was hurting more than I thought it would have.

"May we see this proof?" Aulë asked suddenly, "I will not rely upon rumor for this charge."

I had not thought it possible, but even more guilt flooded me. Aulë was trying to help me, but my folly and rage would prove his efforts fruitless. I knew that what my past teacher called rumor was really true.

"We shall present the proof," Manwë declared, "Nolofinwë, come forward."

I looked up at once, my hand falling from my head to my side at once. My half-brother stepped forth from the swiftly parting crowd, palely golden and sincere as a warm spring morning, looking up at the Valar with reverence.

"Show all assembled the wound Fëanáro has imposed upon you," Yavanna commanded quietly. Nolofinwë looked almost hesitant to do so, but he did as he was told and unbuttoned the neck of his tunic, pulling the silken fabric down to reveal a tender-looking crimson gash that lay open over his heart. It was not bleeding, but looked as if any sudden movement would cause it to bleed again.

A gasp rippled through the throng at the sight of the wound. All had never seen such a thing before on an Elda, and the sight of it shocked them. Many began muttering darkly amongst themselves, no doubt talking over how to punish me for doing such a thing.

Nolofinwë looked to me, his grey eyes miserable, but I looked away implacably and clenched my jaw in dread, not wanting the pity of my betrayer. I had injured Nolofinwë worse than I had thought to, and now my mistake was returning to trouble me.

"Silence," Manwë ordered the council, and they did so at once. Then he returned his profoundly deep gaze to me. "Explain to us why you have done such an abhorrent crime to your own kinsman, who shares with you your father and his noble blood."

This was a question I dreaded to answer, but I knew my obligation and at last replied, "Melkor came to me, and told me that Nolofinwë and his brother, Arafinwë, intended to take the kingship of the Noldor, that which is my birthright, from me. To defend my family and the honor of my house, I made weapons and gave them to my sons, to use in times of need. Melkor also told me--" I swallowed, for my mouth was suddenly dry, "That you backed my half-brothers in this cause."

More whispers swelled in the council, and Tulkas, the Vala known best for his long-standing hatred of Melkor, stood to his feet, clenched his fists, and left, no doubt to confront the disgraced Power and bring him to the judgment of the council.

The other Valar watched him go without emotion, and as they turned back to the matter at hand Varda said, "This seems naught but a lie of Melkor, albeit a well-devised one. For we did not aid Nolofinwë in such a plan, nor were we even aware of it." She turned to Nolofinwë, her night-blue eyes earnest but thoughtful. "Did you truly make such a design?"

Nolofinwë wavered for a moment, but then shook his head solemnly. "Never. Not once in my life did I think of wresting from my brother what is clearly his. However, rumor came to me that Fëanáro had our father in hand and used Finwë as a pawn to carry out his own decisions and purposes. I was also told that before long Fëanáro would gain more power as a King in all but name, and drive my family forth from Tirion, for such was as he has ever wished it."

I bit back a cry of indignant rage at the blatant lie. The thought of me using my _father_ as an instrument to gain power was ridiculous! Everyone knew how much I loved him. Everyone. I would sooner die than carry out such cruel manipulation against Finwë.

"Is this a lie too, Fëanáro?" Ulmo asked of me, and I nodded vehemently. The Valar began conferring among themselves in hushed tones, and I remained silent, knowing they were deciding some momentous fate. When their whispered exchange slowed and stilled, Mandos spoke to me, in his cheerless, unfeeling voice.

"Fëanáro Curufinwë, we have heard of your earlier words, in which you spoke of thralldom. If thralldom it be, you or any other cannot escape it, for Manwë is King of Arda, and not of Aman alone. And your wounding of Nolofinwë was unlawful, whether in Aman or no. Therefore this doom is now made--for twelve years you shall leave Tirion, where this threat was uttered. In that time, take counsel with yourself, and remember who and what you are. But after that time, this matter shall be set in peace and held redressed, if others will release you."

I bowed my head in silence. I knew no one present cared enough about me to release me from this punishment after I had served out my time. Beaten, I meekly began to realize my fate--the life of an exile, lived out in loneliness and hardship, far from family or the pleasures and safeties of home.

"Valar," someone said suddenly, and I lifted my eyes slightly. It was Nolofinwë, undoubtedly about to convince them to raise my punishment even further. But when I looked in his eyes for the self-satisfied glow of cruel joy that surely would have suffused my own had I been in his place, I saw none.

"Valar," he repeated again, bowing his head, "I will release my brother."

Somehow, strangely, his releasing me from my punishment was worse than if he had increased it. I was suddenly in an eddy of confusion, for my assumptions had brought me to no truth. No longer an exile, released by the one whom I had been brought here for harming, I was beholden to Nolofinwë.

_That was why he released me_, I thought furiously. All my cowed guilt left me in a smoldering burst of new rage. I could do no further ill against him because of his supposed mercy. Obligation and his clever plotting inextricably bonded us now, and it was too much for me to bear. Furious and hurt and miserable, I turned on my heel and left the Ezellohar without so much as a proper farewell.

Oromë caught up to me at the foot of the hill, just as the silver glow of Telperion was growing bright and bathing the city in silver-blue warmth.

"You cannot just walk the entire way to Tirion," he protested, seeing my sullen rage and probably attributing it to my punishment, "I will go get the horses, and shall see you home before the waxing of the light of Laurelin."

I waited, arms folded impatiently, grinding my teeth wrathfully and brooding over my horrid fate as it ran through my head again and again. Exiled from Tirion, obliged to Nolofinwë, and hated by all as a mover of discontent. What was my family going to say? I thought of my children, and especially of Nerdanel. How much longer before she hated me? Trembling with dread at the thought, I knew if Nerdanel were ever to hate me, I would die of grief. And what was my father going to say? Would he side with Nolofinwë? With the Valar? He would abandon me as he had abandoned the memory of Míriel.

Oromë returned, leading the two milky-white horses, and we mounted and rode at once, journeying like the wind itself across the silver-lit plains. I tried to concentrate on riding, but my mind kept dancing back to the thought of the welcome I was to receive at home. Would my family go with me into the wilderness? I was husband and father, but, as an exile, now perhaps that power too was taken from me.

Grief and worry followed my horse's hooves closely throughout the ride home, and did not leave me be until we arrived at the dooryard of my house, just at the mingling of the lights. I dismounted hastily, but Oromë remained upon his horse, looking down at me with resolute, unfeeling eyes.

"Send my greeting to Tyelkormo," was all he said, before he spurred his horse back down the path, the other steed ghosting after its wake.

It was only after Oromë left my side that I realized how tired I was. Leaning on a fencepost briefly, I gazed at the small house I had lived in for so long. Now, it seemed almost a wonder Nerdanel and I had managed to raise seven boisterous sons within its walls. It still stood, and none the worse. I wished I could walk away from this ordeal just as unscathed.

As I approached the door, it flew open before I could reach it, and all my sons flooded toward me from the darkness.

"Father!" They chorused, voices hushed, and I could tell from their cautious eyes that Nerdanel had no idea they were awake at this ungodly hour.

"We waited for you outside all yesterday," Carnistir informed me, "And after dinner Mother told us to come in, but we decided to sneak out later and wait some more."

"What happened? Why did Oromë come for you?" Tyelkormo asked, nudging his younger brothers aside so I could enter. His pale face was in deep shadow, but I heard his confusion in his voice.

"Everyone was saying the Valar were angered with you," Maitimo added in a whisper, "And you went to the Ezellohar to speak with them. Is that true?" I nodded, and they all suppressed gasps of wonder.

"Father," Ambarussa persisted somewhere from the dark near my elbow, "Melkor is gone! He ran away. Tulkas came to the city to look for him last night, but could not find him. Melkor has left Tirion."

"We knew you would scare him off," Ambarto said proudly, and I shook my head, surprised by this news.

"It was none of my doing," I protested, but the twins shrugged my dissent off, grinning excitedly and elbowing each other.

"What did the Valar say to you?" Maitimo asked, and I opened my mouth to reply.

"Yes, what did they say?" came a wry voice from the hall, and Nerdanel entered in her nightgown, holding a candle and looking about with an arch gaze at each of her sons.

"Mother, we--" Maitimo began, biting his lip nervously, but she patted him gently on the shoulder, silently telling him that all was forgiven, then looked back to me. I took a seat, and looked at my family, who gathered about me closely.

"I should tell you first why the Valar summoned me to their city," I began, watching their faces shiver and glow in the candlelight, "You have probably heard this by now, from many people, but I feel it is my place to let you know as well. At the council of Finwë, Nolofinwë spoke words that angered me, and left the council, but I followed and stayed him at the gate, and threatened him with my sword. That was where--the blood came from. I came home to you, but, before I could explain, Oromë came to escort me to Valmar.

"I went to the Ezellohar and spoke before the assembled Valar, and all became clear. The rumors I heard, of Nolofinwë plotting to usurp Finwë's throne, were lies--lies devised by Melkor. I am sorry for deceiving you in my ignorance." At this, I looked to Nerdanel, but the emotion in her eyes was unreadable. "But even if I acted because of lies, what I had done was truth, and I still deserved punishment for my actions. So," I took a deep breath, and let it out before continuing. "The Valar have exiled me from Tirion for twelve years, after which I shall return, at the pardon of Nolofinwë." I ground my teeth once, then forced myself to speak on. "You are free to go with me or stay here as you desire, but I love all of you greatly and would see you come with me, to offer me solace in the dark days I know will follow."

For a moment, they looked at me with silent, disbelieving eyes, until Carnistir muttered angrily, "They cannot do that do you. You are Finwë's heir. Father, do not let them--"

I looked at him gravely, seeing the selfsame anger I myself contained reflected in his dark, sullen eyes. "Carnistir, I too am ashamed and enraged by this, but it would do both you and me well if we kept those emotions dormant for a while yet. Let the Valar forget about us as we remain in the wild, and then we shall see where we go from there."

"I am coming with you," he demanded, folding his arms petulantly, "They will not humiliate you in solitude at least."

"I will go too," Tyelkormo added, grinning, "We will need food, and I shall hunt for you."

"We will hunt too!" Ambarto and Ambarussa cried, "We know how! We will go with you, Father!"

Maitimo shrugged. "You are my father," he mumbled, "I shall follow you into exile."

"We should tell Curufinwë and Makalaurë, and maybe they will come too," Tyelkormo began telling his brothers excitedly, and soon they were engrossed in their conversation.

I looked to Nerdanel, a small hope rising in my heart. She smiled a sad, weary smile, her face golden in the candlelight, but only said, "I will see."


	30. Chapter Thirty: Ezellohar

_Chapter Thirty: Ezellohar_

On the morning of the great council, I felt again the need to go with my sword upon my side, for a cold thrilling of fate told me I would have need of it soon. So I went indeed with my sword at my belt, girt in my finest dark blue tunic, which was embroidered with three stars at the cuffs and across the chest, and bearing under one arm one of my adamant silver helmets, crowned with crimson plumes and worked in fine gold.

Both Carnistir and Tyelkormo begged to go with me when they saw my purpose, but I refused both of them. I would speak alone before my father and the lords of Tirion. Had I not crafted the Silmarils alone as well? Perhaps solitude was a source of good fortune for me. I left for my father's hall with high spirits, confident that all would go well.

But when I came to the house of my childhood, beneath the tall shadow of the Mindon, I already heard voices emerging from the great hall. Furious that I should be so forgotten, I strode to the doorway leading to the hallway, but then stopped dead, all the enraged words that had risen so readily to my lips emerging stillborn. For among the many voices, Nolofinwë's had risen, and all others fell silent.

"King and father, will you not restrain the pride of my brother, Curufinwë, who is called the Spirit of Fire, all too truly? By what right does he summon councils and speak for all our people, as if he were King?" Nolofinwë emerged into my sight, a tall pillar of golden strength, and he continued on, voice heedless but steadily strong, "It was you who long ago spoke before the Eldar, bidding them to accept the Valar's summons to these land. It was you, and no other, who led the Noldor upon the long road through the perils of Middle-earth to the light of Eldamar. If you shall not repent of it now, at least you have two sons to honor your words."

Wrath as I had never felt before furled me, and I strode with long, brutal steps into the hall, to stand before my father, putting on my helm as I did so. I should have known. Nolofinwë was influencing my father as I never had. Melkor had been right--if he continued to wield such control, he would indeed be King before anything could be done. I was the eldest child, the firstborn and only son of Míriel, and rightful heir to the throne of the Noldor. I would not stand quietly by and let a power-hungry youth manipulate my father.

An awed silence settled over all who stood gathered there, and for a moment no words could be said. I glanced over at my half-brother.

Nolofinwë stood tall beside me, face free of shame or fear, his hair framing his face in a radiant halo, his grey eyes flashing like proud steel. He took in the sight of my sword without visible reaction, then turned his eyes back to my father, head held high. Not wanting to be outdone, I looked to my father as well, and it was I who spoke next.

"So it is, Father, even as I guessed," I said, speaking to my father but loud enough for all to hear, "My half-brother would be before me with my father, in this as in all other matters." The silent shock on Finwë's face only kindled my rage, and I drew my sword in a fury, turning to my brother and extending the blade until it hovered only a short distance from his throat. "Get you gone, and take your due place!"

In the silence that followed, I imagined running the sword through Nolofinwë a thousand times for numerous reasons, but Nolofinwë remained resilient and emotionless. He regarded me quietly for a moment, then bowed briefly but politely to Finwë and left the chamber, his footsteps fading to echoes in the hall.

"Not this time," I muttered, so softly only I could hear, "No. Not this time, Ingoldo." My anger still consuming me, I followed after him, at a pace so swift it was only a handbreadth from running. Servants that passed me in the corridor cowered at the fury that pounded with the hot blood through my veins, at the fell glimmer in my eyes. I caught up with Nolofinwë at the open door of my father's house. He was halfway through the gate when I came at last to his side.

Unable to contain my blind anger any longer, I gripped him by the shoulder with one hand and raised my still-bared blade to linger over his heart. For a moment, I realized Nolofinwë was a boy no longer, nor even the young man I had quarreled with before my father so long ago. He was a man now, with broad shoulders speaking of strength to rival my own, and he looked me squarely in the eye. If we were to come to blows now, I knew suddenly, it would be only my sword and the slight advantage of great strength from years of blacksmithing that would save me.

"See, half-brother," I hissed, "This is sharper than your treacherous tongue." The slightest tremor of fear marred Nolofinwë's face, and I smiled in grim delight to have broken his emotionless indifference, but his eyes remained upon my own, and looked not at all at the blade that was so close to sundering his fate from the rest of the Eldar. "Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father," I continued, voice still quiet but full of venomous hate, "and maybe this blade shall rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be the master of thralls."

Nolofinwë's silence began to enrage me. Was he not afraid? Would he not heed my words? Heart pounding loud in my ears, I gave the sword just the slightest thrust, and the tip stabbed eagerly into Nolofinwë's flesh, but went no further than to deal him the slightest injury. Blood bloomed over the breast of his fine tunic, but Nolofinwë still said nothing, meeting my gaze with his cool grey eyes.

"Keep that as a reminder of what happens to those who dare to attempt taking the place of Fëanáro Curufinwë in his father's heart," I remarked bitterly, releasing my grip on his shoulder and drawing the tip of the bloodied blade from his breast, "May it mark you forever. Do not forget your place again."

Nolofinwë raised an untrembling hand to his chest, and felt the slight wound there, his fingers coming away stained with red blood. Both he and I had never seen the blood of another Eldabefore, and we both trembled for a moment, before we remembered ourselves. Nolofinwë looked at me with inscrutable eyes that seemed almost betrayed, then strode off into the crowds that were gathered about the square before my father's house. All was still, for all had heard my words, and all saw the blood that tainted my silver blade.

I walked home in an almost drunken haze, too intoxicated with the realness of what I had just done to return the awed, frightened gaze of the Noldor watching me or to even sheathe my sword. Despite myself, my shoulders slumped and I could barely lift my head, and the proud, arrogant fire that had suffused me only moments ago seeped out of me. I could do nothing to stop it, let alone much else. My eyes wandered between the cobblestone road before my feet and the bloodstained sword in my hands, but my mind was numb and distant, unseeing.

I had just willfully injured another Elda. I had threatened my own half-brother. The fact that I was surely doomed for my crime was not a new one to my mind. Now that the rage had left me and the blindness of anger had gone, I knew I would pay, and in no small measure.

The rebellious part of me, the small part that still endured, still shrieked Nolofinwë's words in my ear, reminding me of my purposes. I wavered between remaining unrepentant or begging the Valar for forgiveness, and the decision I had to make made me feel like a powerless child, which irritated me further.

I came to my house, but for a moment only stood there, looking at it with a weary and sorrowing eye. Where would I go after this?

My children welcomed me eagerly at the door, and I collapsed into my chair by the hearth the instant I entered the room.

"What happened?" Tyelkormo asked, pushing a glowering Carnistir towards the cabinet to get me a goblet and spiced wine.

I buried my head in my hands, letting the sword fall to the floor with a clatter, and the twins, who had been approaching me, leapt back with simultaneous yelps at the noise.

"By the Powers, you look exhausted," Carnistir fussed, nearly stumbling over the sword as he handed the goblet to me, "It is almost as if you had-" He looked down at the blade at his feet, seeing the blood as well, and never finished the sentence. I stared into the wine, too enervated to drink even the smallest swallow. For a long time, we remained like that--my sons waiting eagerly for my words, words that would never come.

"What is going on?" Nerdanel entered the room, dusting her hands on her apron, then looked to me. "Back so soon?" Her tone was concerned, but not worried or frightened in the least.

"What happened?" Maitimo, trailing his mother, came in as well, his face almost a duplicate of his mother's for its indifferent curiosity.

"I--" I began, but there was a sharp knock at the door. Carnistir and Nerdanel both went for it at once.

"Father, why is your sword red?" Ambarussa asked quietly in the awkward, fatigued silence.

"It is blood," I muttered, finally taking a sip of the wine.

"Blood?" Ambarussa and Ambarto echoed as one.

"Hush," Maitimo murmured quickly, voice uneasy, but Tyelkormo, seeing I was too tired to carry on a conversation, quickly cut in.

"Remember when we hunt together?" He prompted the twins, as he sat cross-legged at my feet, "When we kill the animal, there is blood on the spear and on Huan's muzzle. That is blood, brothers. When a being loses its blood in abundance, it loses its life as well, and its spirit leaves the house of the body."

"I remember," Ambarussa told Tyelkormo, slightly disdainful at being treated like a forgetful child.

"Did you kill an animal?" Ambarto asked me solemnly, but never got an answer, for Carnistir and his mother returned at that moment.

"Oromë is here," Carnistir informed us, eyes dark, "He--"

"He must be here for me," Tyelkormo said excitedly, leaping to his feet, "I will--"

"No," Nerdanel interrupted quietly, glancing at me, "He is here for your father."

Against my will, the hand I used to hold the goblet trembled, but I hid the fear quickly, lest my sons see it. If this was the last they were to see me, they would see a father who went to his fate without dread.

I stood to my feet, setting the cup aside, and nodded briefly to Nerdanel. To my amazement, I saw for the first time in ages a deep pity and worry in her eyes, and her brow was furrowed in anxiety. In the moment of darkness, I felt a brief solace flare up in my heart, like the last blaze of a dying flame, and I smiled at her, briefly, gratefully, then went to the door.

Oromë stood there, his golden hair glimmering in the evening light, and he shifted his weight upon the tall javelin he held in one hand. Behind him were two horses, both a shining, snowy white that was almost blinding to look upon. He bowed his head gravely when he saw me, and I did so as well, though a distrustful misgiving rose in me. I knew why the Vala was here, but I did not know what he would do now.

"I greet you, son of Finwë," Oromë said, his voice as deep and rich as the sound of the hunter's horn he followed so eagerly.

"And I you, Oromë," I replied. The Vala's Laurelin-browned face remained kind and solemn, but there was no pity in his expression. He knew well his errand.

"Fëanáro Curufinwë, I am come to take you to Valmar and the judgment of the Valar concerning your actions." The tone and firm words left no space to weave through, and I knew I was truly snared.

"I shall go with you," I replied calmly, trying not to sound like a man who had just received summons to the terrible doom I faced, "How long will this journey take?"

Oromë smiled proudly, and patted the muscled shoulder of one of the white horses. "My steeds shall see us there within two days, Fëanáro." I noticed he did not mention when or if I would return.

"When do we leave?"

"Now, if it pleases you." The last few words were clearly an afterthought, and not intended to be taken seriously. Oromë would take me if it meant trussing and bagging me like any other game bird, so long as he was able to bring me to the table of the hungry Valar. Biting back another shudder, I took the bridle of the horse he offered me and mounted. Oromë mounted as well, then spurred his horse and took the lead. Without a glance back to my house, I followed him, ready to face whatever awaited me.

The horses of Oromë were indeed as swift as he claimed, and we came to the gates of Valmar long before the changing of the lights on the second day. The ride was silent, and I used the time to let myself think, carefully considering my situation. I even began planning my speech before the Valar in my head, if they would hear me before dealing punishment. Surely they would grant me their attention for enough time for me to twist my way out of this. They would not let the voice of a son of Finwë go unheard. I convinced myself of this time and time again, until we were within the Valar's city, where doubt again overtook me.

"Where do we go?" I asked Oromë as we wove through the bright streets, which were mockingly luminous even through the grim shadows of my heart.

"To the Ezellohar, Fëanáro," the Vala replied without a glance back.

The Ezellohar. My body tensed with fright so badly that my mount tossed its proud white head, confused at my suddenly faltering horsemanship. Quickly, I suppressed my horror, and gently nudged my horse on, but the thought of the Ezellohar continued to drift through my head.

The Valar only gathered at the Ezellohar for the only the most crucial of moments in their reign; they had summoned their council there when my father had gone seeking the return of Míriel from the halls of Mandos. What did they plan to do with me?

The last arrogant, defiantly quivering part of me rose up again, telling me it was all Nolofinwë's fault, that it was he who had goaded me into wrath, but I shook it away. I would not let anger cloud my thoughts so soon after it had ruined my life. Even the notion of my half-brother would not shake me.

I straightened in the saddle as the Ezellohar came into sight, golden with the clear light of Laurelin. Many people now gathered in the streets to watch me, but I held my head high, maintaining a regal manner despite the fact that, no doubt, rumor had spread of the matter that brought me here. I would go to my fate as a prince, a smith, an heir, for such I was, and, come what may, I would keep that fate honorable.

When we came to the foot of the great green hill, Oromë and I dismounted, and Oromë took the two horses and led them away to graze. Then he returned and ushered me up the rounded, grassy slopes, to the foot of the Trees. In the lush meadow that grew in the Trees' divine shade, fourteen chairs made of the finest silver glass had been set, and the Valar were seated in all of these but one, which Oromë quickly took, completing their number. Behind them stood several Maiar and Eldar, but they were not the merry, chattering folk I had seen when I had presented them with the Silmarils--their faces were somber and forbidding, and the light in their eyes had darkened.

Apart from this sober group stood a smaller gathering of Eldar, who I was quick to recognize as Noldor. But their faces were not cool with somberness; instead they looked about with hateful, sullen eyes, glowering at any whose gaze lingered to long upon them. Among their numbers I recognized the copper-haired Elda, the follower of Melkor, with whom I had exchanged brief words at Finwë's feast, and I knew this band must be the ones who had openly followed the disgraced Vala, and had been summoned here also for their irreverence.

I did not stare at the disciples of Melkor for long, for suddenly Manwë straightened in his chair and commanded, "Step forth, Fëanáro Curufinwë."

Without thought, I obeyed, walking slowly but surely to the center, encircled by the chairs of the Valar. The gaze of fourteen angered Powers was too much for even me, and I lowered my eyes soon after my approach, doing all I could not to curl up and weep with dread.

"Fëanáro son of King Finwë," Manwë announced in his resonant voice, speaking to me but loud enough for all to hear, "You are summoned to the Ring of Doom to answer for your crimes. You will answer all questions asked of you with naught but the truth."

"I shall," I mumbled, intimidated by the grieved disappointment contained in the lord of the Valar's voice. For a moment, there was silence, then Aulë stirred and spoke.

"Is it true then, Prince Fëanáro," he asked, and I hung my head, for even a glimpse from the corner of my eye of my former mentor's distress would have been enough to make me collapse in guilt, "That you spoke against the Valar in defiance and arrogance, disdaining our rules and the decisions made in our reign?"

I kept silent for a moment, but knew I had to answer. "Yes," I admitted numbly.

"And is it true," Lórien continued, taking over from Aulë, who had buried his head in his hands in dismay, "That you inflicted a wound upon your half-brother, the Prince Nolofinwë, with a blade that none of us here had countenanced you to make?"

"I did," I replied softly, rubbing my temple with a weary hand. The truth was hurting more than I thought it would have.

"May we see this proof?" Aulë asked suddenly, "I will not rely upon rumor for this charge."

I had not thought it possible, but even more guilt flooded me. Aulë was trying to help me, but my folly and rage would prove his efforts fruitless. I knew that what my past teacher called rumor was really true.

"We shall present the proof," Manwë declared, "Nolofinwë, come forward."

I looked up at once, my hand falling from my head to my side at once. My half-brother stepped forth from the swiftly parting crowd, palely golden and sincere as a warm spring morning, looking up at the Valar with reverence.

"Show all assembled the wound Fëanáro has imposed upon you," Yavanna commanded quietly. Nolofinwë looked almost hesitant to do so, but he did as he was told and unbuttoned the neck of his tunic, pulling the silken fabric down to reveal a tender-looking crimson gash that lay open over his heart. It was not bleeding, but looked as if any sudden movement would cause it to bleed again.

A gasp rippled through the throng at the sight of the wound. All had never seen such a thing before on an Elda, and the sight of it shocked them. Many began muttering darkly amongst themselves, no doubt talking over how to punish me for doing such a thing.

Nolofinwë looked to me, his grey eyes miserable, but I looked away implacably and clenched my jaw in dread, not wanting the pity of my betrayer. I had injured Nolofinwë worse than I had thought to, and now my mistake was returning to trouble me.

"Silence," Manwë ordered the council, and they did so at once. Then he returned his profoundly deep gaze to me. "Explain to us why you have done such an abhorrent crime to your own kinsman, who shares with you your father and his noble blood."

This was a question I dreaded to answer, but I knew my obligation and at last replied, "Melkor came to me, and told me that Nolofinwë and his brother, Arafinwë, intended to take the kingship of the Noldor, that which is my birthright, from me. To defend my family and the honor of my house, I made weapons and gave them to my sons, to use in times of need. Melkor also told me--" I swallowed, for my mouth was suddenly dry, "That you backed my half-brothers in this cause."

More whispers swelled in the council, and Tulkas, the Vala known best for his long-standing hatred of Melkor, stood to his feet, clenched his fists, and left, no doubt to confront the disgraced Power and bring him to the judgment of the council.

The other Valar watched him go without emotion, and as they turned back to the matter at hand Varda said, "This seems naught but a lie of Melkor, albeit a well-devised one. For we did not aid Nolofinwë in such a plan, nor were we even aware of it." She turned to Nolofinwë, her night-blue eyes earnest but thoughtful. "Did you truly make such a design?"

Nolofinwë wavered for a moment, but then shook his head solemnly. "Never. Not once in my life did I think of wresting from my brother what is clearly his. However, rumor came to me that Fëanáro had our father in hand and used Finwë as a pawn to carry out his own decisions and purposes. I was also told that before long Fëanáro would gain more power as a King in all but name, and drive my family forth from Tirion, for such was as he has ever wished it."

I bit back a cry of indignant rage at the blatant lie. The thought of me using my _father_ as an instrument to gain power was ridiculous! Everyone knew how much I loved him. Everyone. I would sooner die than carry out such cruel manipulation against Finwë.

"Is this a lie too, Fëanáro?" Ulmo asked of me, and I nodded vehemently. The Valar began conferring among themselves in hushed tones, and I remained silent, knowing they were deciding some momentous fate. When their whispered exchange slowed and stilled, Mandos spoke to me, in his cheerless, unfeeling voice.

"Fëanáro Curufinwë, we have heard of your earlier words, in which you spoke of thralldom. If thralldom it be, you or any other cannot escape it, for Manwë is King of Arda, and not of Aman alone. And your wounding of Nolofinwë was unlawful, whether in Aman or no. Therefore this doom is now made--for twelve years you shall leave Tirion, where this threat was uttered. In that time, take counsel with yourself, and remember who and what you are. But after that time, this matter shall be set in peace and held redressed, if others will release you."

I bowed my head in silence. I knew no one present cared enough about me to release me from this punishment after I had served out my time. Beaten, I meekly began to realize my fate--the life of an exile, lived out in loneliness and hardship, far from family or the pleasures and safeties of home.

"Valar," someone said suddenly, and I lifted my eyes slightly. It was Nolofinwë, undoubtedly about to convince them to raise my punishment even further. But when I looked in his eyes for the self-satisfied glow of cruel joy that surely would have suffused my own had I been in his place, I saw none.

"Valar," he repeated again, bowing his head, "I will release my brother."

Somehow, strangely, his releasing me from my punishment was worse than if he had increased it. I was suddenly in an eddy of confusion, for my assumptions had brought me to no truth. No longer an exile, released by the one whom I had been brought here for harming, I was beholden to Nolofinwë.

_That was why he released me_, I thought furiously. All my cowed guilt left me in a smoldering burst of new rage. I could do no further ill against him because of his supposed mercy. Obligation and his clever plotting inextricably bonded us now, and it was too much for me to bear. Furious and hurt and miserable, I turned on my heel and left the Ezellohar without so much as a proper farewell.

Oromë caught up to me at the foot of the hill, just as the silver glow of Telperion was growing bright and bathing the city in silver-blue warmth.

"You cannot just walk the entire way to Tirion," he protested, seeing my sullen rage and probably attributing it to my punishment, "I will go get the horses, and shall see you home before the waxing of the light of Laurelin."

I waited, arms folded impatiently, grinding my teeth wrathfully and brooding over my horrid fate as it ran through my head again and again. Exiled from Tirion, obliged to Nolofinwë, and hated by all as a mover of discontent. What was my family going to say? I thought of my children, and especially of Nerdanel. How much longer before she hated me? Trembling with dread at the thought, I knew if Nerdanel were ever to hate me, I would die of grief. And what was my father going to say? Would he side with Nolofinwë? With the Valar? He would abandon me as he had abandoned the memory of Míriel.

Oromë returned, leading the two milky-white horses, and we mounted and rode at once, journeying like the wind itself across the silver-lit plains. I tried to concentrate on riding, but my mind kept dancing back to the thought of the welcome I was to receive at home. Would my family go with me into the wilderness? I was husband and father, but, as an exile, now perhaps that power too was taken from me.

Grief and worry followed my horse's hooves closely throughout the ride home, and did not leave me be until we arrived at the dooryard of my house, just at the mingling of the lights. I dismounted hastily, but Oromë remained upon his horse, looking down at me with resolute, unfeeling eyes.

"Send my greeting to Tyelkormo," was all he said, before he spurred his horse back down the path, the other steed ghosting after its wake.

It was only after Oromë left my side that I realized how tired I was. Leaning on a fencepost briefly, I gazed at the small house I had lived in for so long. Now, it seemed almost a wonder Nerdanel and I had managed to raise seven boisterous sons within its walls. It still stood, and none the worse. I wished I could walk away from this ordeal just as unscathed.

As I approached the door, it flew open before I could reach it, and all my sons flooded toward me from the darkness.

"Father!" They chorused, voices hushed, and I could tell from their cautious eyes that Nerdanel had no idea they were awake at this ungodly hour.

"We waited for you outside all yesterday," Carnistir informed me, "And after dinner Mother told us to come in, but we decided to sneak out later and wait some more."

"What happened? Why did Oromë come for you?" Tyelkormo asked, nudging his younger brothers aside so I could enter. His pale face was in deep shadow, but I heard his confusion in his voice.

"Everyone was saying the Valar were angered with you," Maitimo added in a whisper, "And you went to the Ezellohar to speak with them. Is that true?" I nodded, and they all suppressed gasps of wonder.

"Father," Ambarussa persisted somewhere from the dark near my elbow, "Melkor is gone! He ran away. Tulkas came to the city to look for him last night, but could not find him. Melkor has left Tirion."

"We knew you would scare him off," Ambarto said proudly, and I shook my head, surprised by this news.

"It was none of my doing," I protested, but the twins shrugged my dissent off, grinning excitedly and elbowing each other.

"What did the Valar say to you?" Maitimo asked, and I opened my mouth to reply.

"Yes, what did they say?" came a wry voice from the hall, and Nerdanel entered in her nightgown, holding a candle and looking about with an arch gaze at each of her sons.

"Mother, we--" Maitimo began, biting his lip nervously, but she patted him gently on the shoulder, silently telling him that all was forgiven, then looked back to me. I took a seat, and looked at my family, who gathered about me closely.

"I should tell you first why the Valar summoned me to their city," I began, watching their faces shiver and glow in the candlelight, "You have probably heard this by now, from many people, but I feel it is my place to let you know as well. At the council of Finwë, Nolofinwë spoke words that angered me, and left the council, but I followed and stayed him at the gate, and threatened him with my sword. That was where--the blood came from. I came home to you, but, before I could explain, Oromë came to escort me to Valmar.

"I went to the Ezellohar and spoke before the assembled Valar, and all became clear. The rumors I heard, of Nolofinwë plotting to usurp Finwë's throne, were lies--lies devised by Melkor. I am sorry for deceiving you in my ignorance." At this, I looked to Nerdanel, but the emotion in her eyes was unreadable. "But even if I acted because of lies, what I had done was truth, and I still deserved punishment for my actions. So," I took a deep breath, and let it out before continuing. "The Valar have exiled me from Tirion for twelve years, after which I shall return, at the pardon of Nolofinwë." I ground my teeth once, then forced myself to speak on. "You are free to go with me or stay here as you desire, but I love all of you greatly and would see you come with me, to offer me solace in the dark days I know will follow."

For a moment, they looked at me with silent, disbelieving eyes, until Carnistir muttered angrily, "They cannot do that do you. You are Finwë's heir. Father, do not let them--"

I looked at him gravely, seeing the selfsame anger I myself contained reflected in his dark, sullen eyes. "Carnistir, I too am ashamed and enraged by this, but it would do both you and me well if we kept those emotions dormant for a while yet. Let the Valar forget about us as we remain in the wild, and then we shall see where we go from there."

"I am coming with you," he demanded, folding his arms petulantly, "They will not humiliate you in solitude at least."

"I will go too," Tyelkormo added, grinning, "We will need food, and I shall hunt for you."

"We will hunt too!" Ambarto and Ambarussa cried, "We know how! We will go with you, Father!"

Maitimo shrugged. "You are my father," he mumbled, "I shall follow you into exile."

"We should tell Curufinwë and Makalaurë, and maybe they will come too," Tyelkormo began telling his brothers excitedly, and soon they were engrossed in their conversation.

I looked to Nerdanel, a small hope rising in my heart. She smiled a sad, weary smile, her face golden in the candlelight, but only said, "I will see."

Author's Note:

I know many if not all of you are confused by the opening of the twenty-ninth chapter, where Tyelkormo gives a Vala-bred horse named Rokkolaurë as a gift to his father. Translated into Sindarin, Rokkolaurë becomes _Rochallor_, the name of the horse which Fingolfin rides to Angband for his fatal confrontation with Morgoth. The coincidental choice of name was completely intentional, and I'll explain why. Originally, I imagined _Fire_ to be the first book of a trilogy chronicling the lives of each of the sons of Finwë: Fëanor, Fingolfin, and (because his father Finarfin was too prudent and, as a result, too boring to write about) Finrod. Once I began writing _Fire_ and realized how long 'Book One' alone would end up being, I realized that such an effort was foolhardy and gave it up. However, before I did so, my daring plan had been for Fëanor to be Rokkolaurë's first owner. Upon his death, Rokkolaurë would be given by Maitimo (ever the sensitive and gracious one) to Fingolfin, symbolizing the transition of authority from eldest to secondborn. It's very doubtful that I will ever be able to even begin on the second or third books of my little trilogy idea, but I thought that, regardless of its sudden lack of value to the plot's advancement, the scene between Tyelkormo and his father was a good one and decided to keep it in the story.

I can't scrounge up the time for individual reviewer responses this week, however; school's back in session and my schedule's a little crowded at the moment. I'll try for once I'm better adjusted, I promise!

Love,

Blodeuedd


	31. Chapter ThirtyOne: The Leavetaking

_Chapter Thirty-one: The Leavetaking_

We spent the next few days packing to leave, and Makalaurë and Curufinwë returned often now to the house, for they had agreed to come with us as well, and it felt almost that my family was whole again.

Nerdanel's heart seemed softened now, but she remained reclusive, saying little to anyone and often retreating from the house to some quiet place where she claimed she could find peace from the bustle of the house. I feared her anger no longer, and her compliant silence frightened and worried me.

I would attempt often to wake her from this strange, submissive temper, but she would shrug my questions off with a quiet smile and a whispered, "I am fine, Fëanáro," and continue on as if not troubled by anything at all.

On the third day since I had returned from Valmar, Maitimo returned from a personal errand in an ill mood. He slammed the front door furiously shut as he entered, and we knew at once something was wrong. I came to greet him in the hallway, but Maitimo sidestepped my welcome curtly, walking toward his room with a determined stride.

"Nelya," I called after him, "What is the matter?" The room fell silent--everyone present had never seen Maitimo so angry, and knew something was wrong.

Maitimo stopped halfway inside his room, and turned around, looking at me with incensed eyes.

"You are the matter!" He snapped, clenching and unclenching his fists, "Why do you have to be so different? Everyone in the city is saying you are mad!"

"Mad--?" I repeated, and Maitimo nodded brusquely, mouth tight with anger.

"Why did you have to hurt Nolofinwë?" He demanded, "Why? I have never argued with Findekáno before in my life, but because of _you_ I nearly backhanded him, if my heart had not stopped me! And the look in his eyes after. . . Why do you have to hate them, Father?"

"You know why," I shot back, "There was never meant to be love between the house of Míriel and that of Indis. Let it be."

Maitimo glowered at me bitterly, then stalked into his room and closed the door so loudly it echoed in the house. I could hear him muttering darkly through the wall, but ignored it and turned back to my packing.

"He quarreled with Findekáno," Makalaurë mused disbelievingly from his seat in the corner, where he was folding blankets and putting them in a chest, "I thought I would never live to see such a day."

"And if we did indeed see him angry with Findekáno, never _this_ angry," remarked Tyelkormo, grinning mirthlessly at his older brother as he looked up from his closely supervision of the twins' packing of his hunting materials, which they had insisted on being mature enough to do.

The brothers all shook their heads grimly and carried their conversation, but I did not care to listen any longer. I could hear Nerdanel in the hall, knocking on Maitimo's door and asking him gently what the matter was, but even at the request of his beloved mother, Maitimo did not reply.

That night, I stayed in the living room after dinner, watching the fire slowly dim, with Huan asleep at my feet. Everything was packed, and we were preparing to leave at first light tomorrow, stopping only at the houses of Makalaurë and Curufinwë before leaving the city for the next twelve years.

Twelve years. Twelve long years. But somehow, the eldest family of the house of Finwë would endure, and flourish--I would see it so.

"Should you not be getting some sleep, Fëanáro?"

I looked up, straightening in the chair, temporarily blinded from staring into the fire for so long. As my eyes adjusted to the half-light of the room, I saw it was Nerdanel. Her arms were folded and she regarded me quietly, her gaze soft.

"You do leave tomorrow, if I am not mistaken," she reminded me, watching me with her clear gray eyes.

"_We_ leave tomorrow," I corrected, standing to my feet, and her gaze flew to the floor, as if embarrassed.

"Yes. We. I forgot." Nerdanel bit her lip, and she appeared to brace herself before saying softly, "Fëanáro, I have given it much thought, and I wanted to tell you before--I wanted to tell you that I wish to beg your forgiveness for my pride and aloof ways since the birth of the twins. If I had the weak will to draw blame elsewhere, I would say the fault was that of the ill feeling that has overtaken all of Tirion, but I know that is not right. It was my own bitterness, and I am sorry."

"I forgive you, Nerdanel," I replied with all the tenderness I could muster, "I admit I did not understand your reasons, and must have acted harshly in return because of my ignorance. I--" I smiled weakly, "I thought it was the Silmarils."

"You are half-right," she admitted, smiling at me for the first time in years, "I still do not like the idea of confining such light, but I know the great skill that went into making them."

It was my turn to look away, and I felt myself flush with pride. "So," I said at last, stepping closer to her and smiling down at her, "You have forgiven me. At last there is peace in my heart. I thank you."

Nerdanel smiled up at me, but tears were running down her cheeks, tears she attempted to hide with a brush of her hand, but I stopped her motion and held her hand in one of my own. I felt, as I had so long ago, her hand tremble in mine, and I looked upon her with new concern.

"Nerdanel, what troubles you?"

"I--nothing. It is nothing." I knew it was a lie, but let it be.

"I love you," I whispered, as if those words could still ease all the troubles in the world for us.

"And I you, my Spirit of Fire," she murmured in reply, standing on tiptoe to brush my lips with hers.

At first it was gentle, but then it deepened. It had been so long since I had last kissed her, I had almost forgotten what it felt like, the sudden fire that she kindled in me, the lightness of her form in the circle of my arms.

As I forgot all else, I knew Nerdanel truly had forgiven me.

I awoke alone, in the still hours before the changing of the lights. When I realized Nerdanel rested no longer in my arms, I sat up abruptly in bed, looking about in the shadows of our room, seeking her. Where was she? Why had Nerdanel left me?

Dressing hastily, I went out into the hall and looked about, until I saw the golden candlelight shining through the partly open door of the twins' room. Walking as swiftly and quietly as I could, I went to the door and pushed it further open.

Nerdanel was kneeling at the twins' bedside, watching them sleep, her mouth moving silently as tears ran down her cheeks. Not noticing my presence, she kissed them both gently, and patted Ambarussa's head of russet curls, then stood slowly, reluctantly. She moved toward the door, and, seeing me standing there, froze like a startled deer. It was then I noticed she was wearing riding clothes and her gray traveling cloak.

She was leaving.

"Nerdanel, no," I whispered fervently, but she shook her head and pushed past me into the shadowed hallway, making her way briskly through the night. I all but ran after her, stumbling over things in my blindness.

"Nerdanel," I said again as she went to the front door. She turned to me, her face tear-stained and pale in the firelight.

"Fëanáro, I have to," she murmured, her features forlorn and delicate, "I thought you had forgiven me."

"Do not leave me," I urged, finally coming face-to-face with her, "I need you. We need you." I reached out a hand to her, but she shied away from my touch.

"Do not touch me, not now," Nerdanel said firmly, voice rising slightly, "For if you do, I know my resolve shall leave me when I need it most."

"Why?" I asked her despondently, feeling a lump rise in my throat, and my voice thicken with tears.

"We have grown estranged, Fëanáro. Our love is not what it once was--it is weak now, and cannot hold us together. Believe me. Please. We were too young to know."

"I can change that," I argued, looking disbelievingly into her grieved but unwavering eyes.

"It is too late. Please see it, and let me go without a heavy heart. We must treasure what fate has given us, and ask for no more." Nerdanel looked and sounded as though she had planned this long in her head, but that did not stop her from weeping more. I ached to take her into my arms again, but her words held me back.

"Where will you go? Will you return to us?"

"I am going home, Fëanáro, to my mother and father." She wiped her eyes with a trembling hand, and drew a shuddering breath. "I do not think I shall return."

"But--our children--" I protested.

"They love you more than they ever loved me, Fëanáro, you know that. They will not miss me as much as they would miss you if you left. Love them, and keep them safe."

"I will miss you," I sighed, and she laughed, a mirthless laugh that was choked with tears.

"And I will miss you, every day, for the rest of my life. But let me go. If I remain, what love remains to us will fester into dislike. I would hate to hate you, and I would hate myself for doing so. . . Fëanáro, do not make me."

"I will die of grief if you leave me," I said firmly, and she looked up at me.

"No, you will not," she replied, equally determinedly, "You loved your mother more than you have ever loved me, and I see you still live."

"That is _not_ true," I insisted stubbornly, and Nerdanel smiled, her eyes sad and wan.

She opened the door, and I saw her dapple gray mare waiting outside, tethered to the fence, and I knew, as my stomach became a cold fist, that she had indeed been planning this for a long while. Nerdanel strode out upon the dewy grass, and mounted up, sitting straight and tall in the saddle. She appeared prouder and fairer then than I had ever seen her in my life; she appeared free.

"Farewell, beloved one," Nerdanel whispered softly, but clearly, leaving the last of her love for me in those few words. Without a sound, she spurred her horse to a swift pace and they disappeared into the silver-cold night, departing from the house and my heart for ever.

In the cold hours after Nerdanel had left, I went to my forge and sat there quietly, brooding in the gloom of half-kindled fires and in the emptiness of the part of me Nerdanel had taken with her upon her departure.

At first, I could not understand what had happened. Nerdanel had left me--but she would come back. She had always come back. Always. Of course she would come back now. I realized the lie even as I thought it, and I lay myself over the anvil, not noticing I was weeping until I saw the drops beading on the cold metal. She was gone. I was lost. The children were lost.

Suddenly, I was sickened by the shadows of the smithy. I went to the cabinet where I kept my sword and the Silmarils, undid the latch, and let the light of the three jewels spill out and illuminate the room. The tears in my eyes only refracted the light, casting it into a thousand more bright shafts of radiance. Managing a smile, I touched the smooth glass of a Silmaril's outer housing, admiring how the white light fell on my hand as I did so. Their light was so constant, so pure. Nerdanel had not been constant. She had left. But the Silmarils remained.

Slowly, my heart began to heal, returning back the stronger for the ordeal, though the scars endured.

"Father! Father?" Tyelkormo's voice cut through the silence.

I reeled about in surprise, my momentary calm and comfort broken, and I shut the cabinet hastily. The Silmarils' luster faded from the dingy forge.

"You fool boy!" I snarled, furious at being disturbed, "This is a forge! What if I had been working? If you surprise me like that again, I will--"

Tyelkormo poked his head in the door, face flushed with embarrassment. "I am sorry," he muttered, his eyes downcast, then he looked up with new urgency. "We are all awake, and the twins are hungry. Where is Mother? Is she in your room? When are we leaving?"

"Enough questions," I growled, irritated, "Your mother is--" Where _was_ she? "She is--on an errand, and will not be back for a while. Make breakfast for your brothers."

"But I--I cannot make bread, Father," Tyelkormo admitted ashamedly, "None of us can. Mother always did."

"Then give them fruit and tea. Whatever they want. Go away."

"But we leave in--"

"We are not leaving today!" I barely noticed that I was shouting--I barely cared. "Be patient! Go take care of your brothers."

Tyelkormo saw how angry I was, and quickly did as he was told, leaving the door half-open in his haste to be gone. The light of Laurelin spilt in, a shaft of blinding golden light cast to the cheerless stone floor.

I bent my head and wept again, wondering how I was going to take care of my seven sons. Nerdanel had always been there to help. I knew how to teach them to weld iron; how to keep a fire going; how to make gems that would make the stars weep with envy. But I could not soothe fears, make bread, or calm an argument. That had always been Nerdanel's area. She had always known what to do or say to make everything all right. What was I to do?

I wasted most of the day in the forge, steeped in my own ill moods, which darted across my mind like clouds in a swift, merciless wind, departing just as quickly as they returned to darken the light of day. Hunger gnawed at me, but I ignored it; I could go without food or water for a while, I knew. Could I survive without Nerdanel just as long?

It was when the silver light of Telperion began to mingle with the gold that my cold misery at last heated into resentment. Why had she left me? Why had she _dared_ to leave me? If only this temper had appeared at the moment Nerdanel had left! I would have shown her sense; I would have brought her back to reason!

_How?_ My boiling rage quickly receded at the simple word, for I knew that I had been thinking of violence, though now I almost wept at the thought of striking Nerdanel out of rage, or forcing her into something she had no will to do.

"This--this place," I muttered to myself, "It is filled with too many memories. I must leave. Now." I stood to my feet, looking about, and my eyes fell on the cabinet where the Silmarils lay. Yes, we would go now, my sons and I. I could not remain here, or I would recall too much. My heart would burst with sorrow and rage, and I would go mad with such emotion, and then where would my house's honor lie?

The forge was already mostly packed for the departure that should have been today, and I had no use for what things I had chosen to leave behind. All I did was gather the Silmarils into a casket and buckled on my sword, running a hand absently through my tousled dark hair as I left the forge, closing the door forever with the Silmarils safe in their crystal casket under one arm.

Outside, the night air was sweet and cool, each blade of smoky green grass tinged with silver-blue light. I breathed it deep, taking the memory of Tirion with it, deep into my heart. We would not be coming back. Not for a while, at least.

I entered the sleeping house silently, making my way soundlessly into Maitimo's room. His features were relaxed and empty in sleep, but his brow furrowed at my approach, and he mumbled something as he rolled over, back to me.

"Nelya. Wake up." My tone was commanding, and he opened his eyes, blinking briefly before settling his gaze on me.

"You again," he groaned, putting a hand to his head as his eyes narrowed and he grimaced in remembered wrath.

"Not another word of foolishness," I snapped impatiently, "Wake up your brothers. We are leaving."

Despite my command, I heard him still muttering mutinously as I went to Tyelkormo and Carnistir's room. Carnistir awoke at my approach, hand eagerly going under his bed to where his sword lay, but he went still when he saw it was only his father. Tyelkormo was a deeper sleeper, and I had to shake him for a long time until he stirred.

"What time is it?" He growled crossly, eyes tightly shut as he pulled the covers closer to himself, "What are you doing, Father? Are you mad?" His voice dwindled to a sleepy but nonetheless sarcastic mumble as his mind receded back into the warmth of sleep, "It is a custom among our people, Father, that we who are of their right minds sleep at this hour. . ."

"Get up," I sharply ordered both of them, and when I left into the hall I saw Maitimo had done as he was told and awoken the twins as well, who were yawning and shuffling in the corner.

"Where is Mother?" Ambarto asked sleepily as Carnistir and Tyelkormo came into the hall as well.

"Maitimo told us we are leaving," Ambarussa added, rubbing his eyes with a weary hand, "But we cannot leave without Mother--"

"She left," Maitimo said suddenly, and I clenched my fists tightly. Damn his loose tongue. I could have kept them from the truth until--

"Left?" Carnistir echoed, and they all began speaking at once, all sleepiness gone.

"Where did she go? What happened to her?"

"Why? Was it our fault?"

"What did you do? Is she angry at you?"

Ambarussa's suddenly small voice rose above the others, so unlike his usual full-bodied, delighted shout. "Is she coming back, Father? Will she come back? She is only gone for a little while, right?"

"No," I answered, steadying myself with a hand on the wall, "Nerdanel--your mother is not coming back. She has left us to make a journey alone."

"She would not," Ambarto said heatedly as his twin recovered from the shock and nodded with equal conviction. His tone was almost offended, as if I had just viciously insulted Nerdanel. "She would _not_ leave us. You are lying, Father! She loves us! Mother would _never_ leave!"

"Well, she did," Carnistir snapped irreverently, folding his arms rebelliously, his face hard with disdain for his littlest brothers as he spoke, " She was probably afraid to stay by Father when the Valar's eyes turned from us. Coward that she is."

"Carnistir," I warned in a low voice, as Ambarto's eyes grew overbright with tears of indignation and rage, "You overreach yourself."

"But then why did she leave?" Tyelkormo put in hotly, defending Carnistir.

"I myself do not quite understand," I lied, looking away as my voice grew soft. I could not tell them. Not now. Though all of them were far past their majority, they all still seemed too young to know. "We must move on, all of us. Do not look back upon this--not now, not ever. We are leaving Tirion tonight."

"Tonight?" Ambarussa echoed, and looked ready to say more before Maitimo stopped him with a whispered word, and a gentle hand. Not wanting to look at them anymore, not wanting to see the memories of Nerdanel that waited in their faces, I turned away and went to saddle the horses.

"Are you sure you want to ride Rokkolaurë?" Tyelkormo asked me as he led the black horse to the gate, "He is only half-trained--"

"He is too fine a stallion to be wasted as a beast of burden," I explained, taking Rokkolaurë's reins and stroking the animal's glossy muzzle gently, "Yes, I will ride him, and accept whatever consequences come of it."

The noble horse snorted once, an amiable sound of recognition at my scent; Tyelkormo had been introducing the Vala-bred steed to me only weeks earlier, and already he knew me well.

Tyelkormo nodded at last, though his eyes were concerned as he watched me place the Silmarils' coffer in Rokkolaurë's saddlebag.

"Why did Mother leave us?" He asked as I mounted up, "You can tell me the truth. I am old enough, and you can trust me with a secret, if secret it be."

"Our love was weak," I muttered simply, resentfully, and kneed Rokkolaurë forward, away from further questions.

Behind me, my other sons were readying for departure. Maitimo was driving a pony laden with bags and trunks of all sorts before his dapple mare, glancing back to see if the twins were behind him as they had promised they would be.

And indeed they were, sleepy-eyed and slumped on their mounts, which were just as alike to each other, in their golden stockiness and bright black eyes, as their two riders. Carnistir brought up the rear, sword slung in a baldric over his back, eyes bright with deep thought as he urged on his long-limbed black gelding.

I recognized the sulky bitterness in the boy's features at once, and knew his anger to be directed to Nerdanel for leaving his family. If I had held less love in my heart for his mother, I knew I would probably be just as enraged by her departure as Carnistir was now. He seemed to consider her a betrayer, who had left his father and brothers out of callous selfishness.

_And perhaps she is_, I thought sullenly, but then my heart instantly regretted the cruel thought. Spurring Rokkolaurë forward, I bent to unlatch the gate for the others before setting my horse to a brisk trot down the path to the city walls, not once looking back to see if my sons would follow.


	32. Chapter ThirtyTwo: The City

_Chapter Thirty-two: The City_

We rode without cease, heedless of the mingling of the lights and Telperion's wane, and I did not remember that in our haste we had forgotten Makalaurë and Curufinwë, until they caught up to us around noon that day. Tyelkormo, ever watchful with his keen hunter's eyes, was the first to see the small band of five horses and their riders upon the horizon, coming from the direction of where Tirion had sunk long ago, behind the grassy plains.

Makalaurë was the first to draw near enough to shout a greeting. He looked more splendid then ever in his fine riding clothes, with his harp and flute in their cases slung over his saddle, and his sword belted at his side. However, there was a tangible sadness in his bearing, and it did not take my deep-seeing eyes to know he was a little wounded by our departure without his knowledge.

"You deserted us," he said with mock indignance, dismounting and embracing Maitimo and the twins, the three of which had always been the closest brothers to his heart, "I woke up this morning to a messenger from Grandfather saying you had all disappeared in the night--thank the Powers I knew what your purposes were, and knew which way to go."

"So Makalaurë came to my house, and we decided to follow, even though the invitation to come away in the night did not extend to us," Curufinwë remarked jovially when he pulled up his horse alongside Makalaurë's, glancing briefly over his shoulder to see if Aranel and Tyelpinquar were safely behind him with Márlindë. They were; Márlindë on a slender-limbed bay palfrey, and Aranel, who was followed closely by Tyelpinquar, now a young man, riding a swift-looking roan with the excellent horsemanship of many years of training. Their saddlebags were all brimming, but they brought no wagons

"You _are _planning on taking us with you?" Makalaurë inquired hopefully, as Curufinwë nodded with equal expectation.

I nodded, and so it was that my house added five more exiles to our number.

"Why is Mother not with you?" Curufinwë asked me when everyone else was asleep, and we were left to watch the dwindling of the cookfire and the bright stars above.

I was briefly reminded of the time I had sat with Mahtan on our return to Tirion, and asked him questions, but thinking of Mahtan brought me to mind of Nerdanel, and I quickly put that memory away. But Curufinwë was my favorite son, and I knew my obligation to reply.

"Do you and Márlindë ever argue?" I asked quietly, staring into the fire, sensing Curufinwë's puzzlement as I evaded his question. There was a short silence, and I waited hungrily on his response. Maybe Nerdanel and I were no different than other married couples. Maybe--I could not help but hope through my despair and hurt rage--maybe she was coming back.

"Oh, we have lovers' quarrels often enough," Curufinwë replied, "You know, little spats over who will give Tyelpo his morning lessons and who will weed the garden. We exchange a few hot words, then try to ignore each other--usually in vain. It truly takes two to run a household and take care of a child, even though my son is a child no longer. We always apologize soon after--she has an abundance of ways to make me yield." He laughed at some memory despite the somber mood, and my heart sank, for Curufinwë had unwittingly cast water upon my flames of hope with his response.

"She never--she never threatens to leave you?" I pressed, though I knew it was to no avail.

"No--" Curufinwë said slowly, suddenly confused, and then realization dawned in his voice. "You do not mean Mother--she--oh, Powers, Father, I had no idea. I am so sorry. I must have seemed so arrogant--"

"The fault is not yours," I murmured, looking up from the fire to meet his pitying gaze.

"If it does not harm you to remember, why did Mother leave?" Curufinwë inquired at last.

"She said our love had lessened," I sighed, voice growing rueful despite myself, "And she said if we wished to be happy, we would part. And so she left me. I--" I felt my heart rise to my throat, and fell silent, blinking back the tears which blurred the light of the fire.

"Oh," I heard Curufinwë mutter lamely, his voice faint and soft with loss, tinged with the slightest chance of tears, though he held back with a self-control that was unusual in the one of my sons most like me--restraint was a virtue I did not often possess. There was a staid hush as my son mulled over his thoughts in silence.

"Father," he began at last, "Perhaps she was right. Perhaps it was meant to be. You are capable of raising us alone."

"Am I?" I mumbled despondently.

"You are weakened by her loss now, and all your attempts to recover yourself must seem in vain. But wait and see." Curufinwë stood his feet, blinking up at the stars before glancing back down at me, a proud, admiring love in his eyes. "You will see. Things shall be better."

He left silently, without another word, and I spent the night sleeplessly, watching the embers die and the stars fade.

On the fourth day away from Tirion, we came to a shallow valley, ringed about by rolling green hills of no spectacular height, yet enough to wall the dale off from the world. In the midst of the valley rose a high hill, overlooking the lands below with haughty arrogance. Here, the light of the Trees was faint in comparison to that glory which shone in Tirion or Valmar, and I found some sympathy for the forsaken beauty of the vale.

"Here," I said, to myself at first, then raised my voice to address my sons and our few followers, "Here is where we shall build."

The work began slowly, and required the help of all. Our numbers were few and the toil lasted us the entire day, and I would have ordered us on further into the night, if not for the fervent, wearied pleadings of my sons. I agreed reluctantly, and only after they all promised to set to work immediately the next morning.

While my stronger sons and I did much of the quarrying of stone and other such strenuous labor, Márlindë and Aranel began on the smaller tasks that we alone would not have been able to attend to until much later. They went out on long rides with Tyelpinquar, gathering thatching for roofs, and then began planting fields on the outskirts of our work, using seeds and cuttings Márlindë had brought from the prosperous garden she and Makalaurë had grown in Tirion.

On the second day since we had begun our work, the twins, who had been keeping watch on the hills, ran down to where Maitimo, Tyelkormo, and I were building a wall.

"Father! Father!" Ambarussa yelled, and I set down my burden and looked up.

"What is it?" I asked, a little irritated to be disturbed from my work.

"There are horsemen coming! They bear banners from Tirion, and they are a thousand strong," Ambarto panted, eyes wide with amazement.

"Or more," Ambarussa added, not to be outdone by his younger twin.

"Have they come to torment us in our exile?" Tyelkormo growled angrily, reaching for the sword that had stayed sheathed at his side even during the construction of our city, but Maitimo grabbed his younger brother's arm and stayed him with a look.

"Banners from Tirion?" I mused, wiping my brow and straightening even further, "Maitimo, Tyelkormo--keep working. I will go see what this is about."

I followed the twins up the hill, until we reached the grassy peak and Ambarussa pointed. "See!"

There was a great host of riders below us, making toward the vale at a swift pace, and with my keen eyes I recognized the rider at their head, bearing the emblem of the house of Finwë.

"Father!" I whispered reverently, then started down the incline, glancing over my shoulder to the twins to order only, "Tell the others that Grandfather has come! Make haste!"

I came to the base of the slope just as the mass of riders came to a halt at a gesture from Finwë. He was girt in a riding outfit of the finest blue, with the diadem I had made him about his brow, the sapphires and diamonds glowing radiantly. When he caught sight of me, he dismounted at once and rushed to embrace me. I returned his embrace, but I glanced over his shoulder to see if Indis or Nolofinwë rode with him, and was secretly delighted to see they were not.

"I was so worried about you, Curufinwë!" Finwë exclaimed with no small amount of relief in his voice as he pulled back to look at me with concerned but happy eyes, "Leaving like that in the middle of the night! It was nearly the death of me!"

"Do not say that," I urged, but found myself grinning as well. "All of us are none the worse, save that we go to sleep each night weary from a long day of drudgery. But perhaps now we will not feel even that--now that you are here, I cannot remember what it is to be exhausted!"

"I could not rest either, not knowing where you were," Finwë sympathized as we walked up the hill together, leaving the horsemen behind us to follow as they would, "I left with some men as soon as I could. I brought workmen and laborers, mostly--I knew you would likely need the help."

I laughed in delight as we topped the hill. "Thank you! We shall need them both for aid and to populate our city."

"City?" Finwë echoed, then looked out over the bare foundations we had laid, smiling as he did so. "You have done more than even I expected," he exclaimed, "I suppose a derelict hut in the wilderness is not fine enough for the likes of the eldest son of the house of Finwë!"

He spoke in unknowing jest, but I still thought, briefly, of Mahtan's snug cottage, nestled deep in the trees of the Pelóri, then grimly shook my head to ward off the sudden onslaught of memories as my heart turned cold. "No. It is not," I murmured grimly.

Finwë continued to look over the foundations with pride, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is astonishing. I fear my men will be of little use to you."

"Oh, no," I smiled, glad to have my father with me in exile, "Let us go back to call them down--they can begin at once."

Despite Finwë's beliefs that his addition to our workforce would be of no consequence, we made unbelievable progress over the remainder of that day, and the foundations had become the beginnings of soaring citadels and smaller homes as the days passed.

The place began to not only resemble, but also to also feel like, a city in short time. Many of the men from Tirion had brought their wives and children with them, and those who had not spoke of plans to do so the moment they were able. Our small assemblage, slowly but surely, grew into a community, to the delight of all.

I spent the three days since the arrival of Finwë and his men in complete delight, feeling freed from the trammels of both Indis' children and the Valar at last. The thought of building my own city, liberated from Melkor's rumors and the commands of the Powers, gave me thrills of pleasure, and I grew to love the budding settlement as dearly as if it were my child.

However, as ever had been my luck, my high spirits were not to last long. On the fourth night, Finwë and I emerged from the quarry we had delved in the hills, covered in dust from the stones and shivering as our sweat turned cold in the night, laughing and talking happily despite it all.

"It must be encouragement indeed for the Noldor here to see their own King working among them," I exclaimed, "Thank you again for personally supporting us in the building of this city."

"You speak only of my elevated status as the eldest man of my house," Finwë replied somberly, "For I am King no longer."

"You are not King?" I asked in disbelief, smile fading into a confused frown, "Then who is? Have you left Tirion leaderless?"

"Oh, no, I could never do that," Finwë said at once, his concern and love for the city he had left behind showing plainly in his voice, "I appointed Nolofinwë as regent in my stead, though he may be raised to kingship in short order, if I am to remain here."

My lighthearted ease faded entirely, and I felt my entire body go cold and stiff, my very blood seeming to freeze in my veins as I searched for words. "Nolofinwë--he is regent?" I asked bluntly at last.

"It was the fitting thing to do," Finwë answered quietly, his voice neutral, "With your absence, he was the next in line. He was reluctant to take the throne--indeed, he and Arafinwë seemed almost angry that I was leaving them--but it was the only thing I could do." My face must have been dim in the twilight and the shadows of the hills, but my father sensed my sudden twist of emotions as abruptly as I did.

"How could you?" I moaned in dread and rage, gritting my teeth to keep from shouting, "Why did you give him the crown?"

"Because law commands it," Finwë replied, withstanding my obvious rage with affection but uneasiness as well, "Fëanáro, it was the only thing I could do."

I could not speak for a moment, feeling again the familiar betrayal I had felt when Finwë had married Indis. Twice now he had betrayed my mother's memory and my birthright. Even if it had not been me, I would have lent my support and my sword fully to one of the line of Míriel to claim the kingship of Tirion before I saw a child of Indis, a secondborn, undeserving whelp lay his hands upon it.

"I am your eldest son!" I shouted at last, not pausing to gather my thoughts as my words sprawled out, clumsy and awkward but passionately felt, "Your marriage with Míriel ended long ago, and I see that and, much as I hate to, I accept it, but _I_ remain! Do not forget me, Father. I know Indis and her children are your future, that they are the path you chose to take, and I have sworn to never gainsay it. I swore out of my love for you, not for the love of Indis or your children by her. I will do whatever you say; but I will not be forgotten or cast aside.

"Perhaps Nolofinwë will--he will make a better king, one more just and--and kind than I shall ever be." I almost choked on the bitter words, and my speech slowed with reluctance, but I knew I had to forget my prejudices to tell my father how I felt. Words I had held back since childhood were now spilling from me in a great rush of anger and sorrow and pleading urgency. "I will envy him that kind faultlessness that has earned him your affection until the end of days. If you love me not, let it be so, though my heart shall break and my spirit shall weep from unending grief. But I am your firstborn, and do not deny me my inheritance--that of the son of Míriel."

There was a long quiet, and darkness fell in the silence. Finally, Finwë took a deep breath and spoke.

"Now all stands revealed. You do not want to be forgotten or neglected--a simple want, risen from the first needs of childhood, but one powerful enough to wake hate and sullen rage if not attended to. Know now, my son, that I never intended to, and never will, forget you. Even if I wanted to do so, your fire leaves a mark upon all who know you, even in passing, and to forget would be impossible.

"Fëanáro Curufinwë, let it be known that I loved your mother more than life. I love you with that love because of the pieces of her that I see in you. If she lived today, I would not have looked at Indis twice, and would have been the gladder for it. Think on that, and let your envy rest, for what you so resent is not worth such jealousy.

"The reason why Nolofinwë and Arafinwë were so indignant at my departure was because they felt I was choosing you over them. With all honesty, my son, their suspicions were true. Though your spirit is sometimes too fiery for others to abide in, you are my favorite son, and I speak truth. If it gives your heart ease to think of it so, think that, in leaving Tirion, I have taken the kingship with me, and, in my arrival and settling here, I have bequeathed it to you. This kingship may not be over Tirion or the Noldor, Fëanáro, but it is the kingship over my heart, and I hope that is enough for you."

Finwë's words cooled my anger, and in the stillness after I felt myself begin to weep, though for what I knew not, and I fell into his arms like a child again, shedding tears of sorrow and joy until I had no more.

Author's Note:

Watch out. . . the drama in this next chapter is pretty crazy. I got a little teary-eyed while writing it the first time. Fëanor's just so tormented. . . :-(

Thanks, **Ellfine**, **Viya**, and **Depprium**! Your reviews made my day.

**Unsung Heroine**: Oh, dear. I'll check that Elda problem out right away. As for horses of Valinor--if they were Vala-bred, couldn't they live forever? 'Tis a noble strain, after all. You are welcome, by the way, to scream for more. :-D

**Priestess of Dan**. . . Nelyo? Really? Oops. I don't know if I can fix all the times I made the same mistake before this chapter (reloading all 32 with the change isn't my idea of a picnic!), but I'll certainly fix it in the future. Thanks for keeping your eyes peeled.

**Mizamour**, I _love _Wicked, just not the hype it's getting as a book/musical. I fear it may soon become a gimmick, and be viewed as such rather than the lovely story it is. Anyways, please update soon! I too am review-motivated and know _exactly_ what you mean.

Yours,

Blodeuedd


	33. Chapter ThirtyThree: At the Gates

_Chapter Thirty-three: At the Gates_

After that, I was willing to absolve my misgivings and suspicion against Nolofinwë for a time, to attend to the more immediate troubles of the Valar. Indeed, it seemed that all this had been entirely the doing of the Powers, and the fact that Nolofinwë now ruled in Tirion did not ease the already fierce hate that rose in me. It was enough to make Melkor's words seem to come true. My sullen grudge grew to open anger, and I spurned and rebuked any who invoked the name of the Valar or indicated that they had a hand in events. I promised myself ardently and often that I would never respect their wishes again.

Now that I had my own city, it seemed that I had taken fate and authority into my own hands. For the building of the city was all but complete, and, where once there had been only a green valley surrounded by hills, there was now a sudden, teeming gathering of life.

Upon the rolling hills, walls of solemn gray stone and modest outposts had been built, and men kept a daily vigilance over the surrounding land, for I would not tolerate the slightest interference of Valar or other Eldar without out my knowledge. In the furthest corners of the valley stretched vast orchards and fields for fruit and crops, freshly plowed and awaiting the first growth and harvest. Within the encircling arms of these plantations the first houses stood, small and modest beside the walled inner city. The wall that surrounded the central city on the hill was made of the same simple gray stone as the gates upon the hills, but from its enclosed reach soaring towers and bright mansions rose to proudly rival those of Valmar.

At the city's heart was the home I had made for Finwë, my unmarried sons, and myself, complete with an enormous forge and glass furnace, as well as a secret underground treasury for my most precious gems, weapons, and, of course, the Silmarils. This treasury was kept under tight guard and locked at all times unless a time came when I desired entry, which was often, late in the night, when I sought solace in the light I had wrought of my own hands. The time was rare when I took the Silmarils out by day for others to see, and then I would only let my father or one of my sons look upon their radiance. Whenever others were about, I would hide them at once, lest they saw and coveted their beauty.

When the day of the city's completion came, I decided to name it Formenos, for it was indeed a mighty northern citadel, a safe refuge for those whose eyes had been unveiled and thus seen the tyranny of the Valar. The government I set up was harsh but just, with swift retribution for opposition or misdeeds. My sons were held as princes and delegates, who went about Formenos to see that all was well, and I set myself up as ruler and founder of the city, while Finwë agreed to be my foremost mentor in all matters. Citizens who had disputes or quarrels came to me for judgment, and in seeking justice I put all the skills of negotiation and diplomacy I had learned as my father's heir in Tirion to good use. But there were few such disagreements, and with each passing day my satisfaction with myself grew at having made such a lovely, peaceful city.

Despite the evident serenity and content of Formenos, however, I did not lose or attempt to lose the alert deliberation I had retained during the unrest of the Noldor. I kept myself well practiced with blade, bow, and javelin, and encouraged my sons to do so as well. When I had the time, I worked in my forge making more weapons, and in the spring of the second year since Formenos' completion, I presented Finwë with a magnificent hauberk of mail, a shield bearing the sigil of his house, and a lethally elegant longsword. He took them with awed reluctance, and used them little, preferring to watch my sons and I at practice than to take part, but I knew he must have been pleased with my gift.

The first year after Formenos' completion was all the blissful magnificence I imagined it to be. The autumnal yield of the orchards was profuse enough to have us feasting on fruits alone for months, and the harvest of the fields only added to the rich bounty we had reaped from the trees. My sons seemed happy with their lives, and Finwë also appeared content. In the spring of the second year, Tyelpinquar, at last of the age to safely do so, began to show an aptitude for blacksmithing that was, while not entirely unexpected of my family, a truly bright discovery for a tremendously proud Curufinwë and for me. In personally teaching my grandson the art of metalwork, I felt the best I had ever felt since Nerdanel's perfidious departure, and allowed myself to laugh and live again.

In that time, I myself returned the forge and made seven seeing-stones, the Palantíri, out of the smooth dark stone found in the quarries and embers from a dying fire. I considered them my greatest work since the Silmarils, for I had wrought in them a strange magic, which allowed one who gazed within them, concentrating deeply, to see things, sharp and clear as if in an eagle's eye, from afar. Six of these I allotted among my sons, giving each one of the stones, save for the twins, who were never far from each other and only received one to share between themselves, which they did. The last I kept for myself, so I could watch over the doings of my sons, wherever they went, and they me. I felt safe and content knowing I could keep a constant eye upon my children, and the vigilance of the Palantíri held us even closer together.

But in the winter of the second year, as the intervals in which Laurelin shone grew ever shorter and briefer, the outside world finally caught up to me.

One gray winter's night, when all others were asleep and ignorant of the devices of the lands beyond Formenos, I was returning from the Silmarils' underground treasury when I heard a sharp knock at the door. Hastily locking the door that led to the stairwell to the Silmarils' secure coffer, I went to the front doors, glancing about to see if any in the home had been awakened by the noise before I pulled them open.

For a brief moment I was blind in the darkness outside, shivering and bereft of my sight in the cold. After gazing at the Silmarils and subsequently walking about in the candlelit rooms of my citadel, the silver of Telperion and the innate blackness of night was a shadowy hand that snatched away my sight for a time.

When my eyes adjusted, I saw a tall man, girt in black, upon the threshold. He bore himself so proudly, so forcefully, that I almost did not recognize the man that was no longer the Melkor I had known and hated. The humbleness, the weak, cowering essence I had once thought the core of his being, was gone, replaced by a lethal, arrogant pride that was not entirely pretense. To me, Melkor looked like a man about to be made a lord, after long last; he was utterly confident and smugly potent, endowed by the power that was all but cradled in his hands. For once, he looked every inch the commanding Vala he should have been. The thought of this Melkor groveling and flattering as he once had was laughable. This time, it was his own imposing presence that seemed to command submission, not that which he pretended his prey possessed. The influential, obsequious impression he had always produced was now redoubled tenfold, and it took all my willpower to resist bending to his wishes even in the empty silence before he spoke.

"Prince Fëanáro," Melkor began, and I almost overlooked his use of my right title in my struggle to withstand him, "Since we last exchanged words, much has changed. Yes, much indeed. You have been sent to live the shameful life of an exile, as commanded by the vainglorious Valar, who once proudly boasted their proud love of parity. In the time of your trial upon the Ezellohar, that devotion to justice seemed to go unheard. Why do you still dwell in this realm of tyrants, when you could rule your own lands far from here, just as efficiently and successfully as I see you rule this city?"

That seemed true enough; I had proved myself capable of presiding over Formenos. With Finwë's counsel, ruling a kingdom of my own did not seem so distant and fanciful a dream after all.

"Say on," I muttered reluctantly, and Melkor nodded in passionate agreement.

"See now the truth of all that I have said," he continued fervently, "and how you are banished unjustly. I warned you frequently against the threat of Nolofinwë and his contemptible kin, and sought your friendship so that I might aid you, but these words and advances went unheeded. But if the heart of Prince Fëanáro is yet free and bold as were his words in Tirion, then I will aid him, and bring him far from this narrow land."

_He_ came to _me_, offering his aid? I smiled inwardly in satisfaction; at last, Melkor was coming to his senses.

"For am I not Vala also?" Melkor pressed on, and I found myself listening eagerly to every word as he spoke. "Yes, and indeed more than those weak-willed cravens who sit in pride in Valmar; and ever have I been a friend to the Noldor, most skilled and most valiant of the people of Arda. Will you let me now, in this hour in which we both have need of it, be friend to you as well, Prince Fëanáro?"

I wavered, slightly awakened from the joyful, gratifying unreality Melkor's words had meshed me in, but was reluctant to awaken further. He was offering me service and aid; why should I feel I must refuse? The Valar had humiliated me, dishonored the name of my house and family with the bribes of Nolofinwë's friendship, and had frightened Nerdanel into leaving me.

What remained in Aman for me to cling to? Surely not family; they would come with me if I commanded it. With the force of Melkor's persuasive power combined with my own, I could make _anyone_ I wished come with me in an exodus from the Undying Lands. I could tell Nerdanel to come back to me.

And I would not be confined to using that power only to coerce people into departure and rebellion; I could convince Nolofinwë and his hateful kinsfolk to leave my father forever. That thought delighted me in the glimpses of the future it presented--a blissful, contented life, with no one to steal my father's love or spread cruel lies behind my back. Finwë would love me again.

I would be his only son, and dearest to his heart, as I had been that last day on the slopes of Taniquetil, before Indis had dimmed my light with her own, unrivalled goldenness. I could forget my childhood, those dark days filled with frustration and pain, and always, always the yearning wish to be loved--not just loved _best_, but to be loved singularly and alone, and set above the rest of the world in the light of that tender affection. That special eminence could not be bought with or bribed by the prospect of a fiery spirit, or bright jewels, or even the most skilled hands in all of Arda. However, I knew I would fight as hard as I needed to get it, and at the moment Melkor seemed as if he were shortening the distance between that bright, unattainable objective and myself.

All these thoughts tugged frantically at my sleeve, urging me to consent to Melkor's tempting offer. A life without Nolofinwë and his lies, the return of Nerdanel and her unwavering love, a kingdom of my own, and, above all, the undivided, exclusive love of a father that I had so long thought lost to me--they all begged me to accept and explore this new, hopeful possibility. I opened my mouth, ready to agree, ready to ally myself with the exiled Vala. This was a small price to pay. I would accept.

But before I could speak, Melkor spoke once again, his voice thick with smug pleasure. "Here is a strong place, and well guarded; but, Curufinwë, think not that the Silmarils will ever lie safe and inviolate in any treasury within the realm of the Valar!"

Those words stopped me in the tracks, and the dreams Melkor had filled my mind with dissolved like smoke in the wake of a strong wind. I truly opened my eyes, and saw, with burning clarity, the greedy lust for the Silmarils that had driven each word of his enticing arguments. All of it had been a falsehood to lure me into his hands, so that I would, at some later hour, give him the Silmarils in the dazed stupor that his blindfold of lies had set me in.

For a moment, like one waking but still caught in the mesh of sleep, I longed to return to the dream, but then my bemused wonder and admiration disappeared with a hard jolt, and self-righteous rage filled the gap it had left. How dare that cowardly, sycophantic husk of a being attempt to lie to _me_, the most powerful prince of the Noldor!

I cursed him fiercely enough to make the most toughened and boisterous of men blanch with shock, and then snarled, "Get you gone from my gates, vile jail-crow of Mandos!"

Then, with a vicious movement that made even the smithy-hardened muscles in my arms strain, I slammed both the heavy doors of my house shut in Melkor's face, as if he were a beggar I was refusing shelter. For a moment, I only stood there, listening to the echo of the doors' crash fade in the empty halls and the angry pounding of the blood in my ears as I breathed fast and hard, mired in the grasp of a fury so deep I could not even think straight. I could feel Melkor's incensed, vengeful wrath seeping like poison through the broad wooden doors, which seemed suddenly thin and fragile in the wake of such violent emotion, but his anger only added fuel to the fire of my rage.

That whining, unctuous worm dared to desire the Silmarils. _My_ Silmarils. The entire world would blacken and burn in the greatest fire ever known before I would even willingly contemplate the mere _thought_ of letting him lay so much as a finger on my prized gems. Never. I myself would run him through with my sword first, even though the perils of an Elda facing a Vala were numerous and lethal. An Elda, even armed, with an immense host of warriors at his back, would seem pitifully weak in compare to the lowest of the Ainur, who could summon up a storm with a thought, reduce a powerful rebel to ashes at a glance, and destroy a great army at a gesture. But still, I considered the potential choice with a frightening and fierce somberness.

Aimlessly, I went into the darkened kitchen and tried to get some wine to calm myself down. However, I broke the first goblet I reached for, clenching it so tightly in my rage that it shattered in my fingers. At first I ignored the broken glass digging fiercely into my palm and fingers, until rivulets of blood ran down my hand and I suppressed a cry of shock and pain, absently mopping the blood up with a napkin until the white silk was stained a furious red.

After the bleeding stopped, I used my sharp eyes to see if there was any glass slivers embedded in my hand, and, finding none, tried again with the unwavering, blind resolve only one in an extremely temper can have. But the next two times my hands were trembling so badly with the fury of my anger that I ended up spilling the wine, missing the goblets all together.

Sick with fear and frustrated by the anger that blocked practical thought as badly as any drunken stupor that wine would give me, I threw the goblets aside, listening to the crashes of delicate glass with no small satisfaction. Suddenly exhausted, I collapsed in a chair, running a hand through my hair in frustration and dismay. What ruin had I come to?

"Fëanáro? I heard a noise, and came to investigate. Why are you still awake at this hour?"

I reeled about in my seat, ready to stand, to lash out with my stifled fury at the interruption, but saw it was only Finwë, his eyes dark and concernedly questioning in the flickering candlelight. Quickly, I smoothed my face of rage and regarded him as calmly as I could.

"I--" I held up my hands in bemused, helpless confusion, forgetting the jagged, bleeding wounds in my left hand.

"My son, what have you done to yourself?" Finwë's face paled with horror and worry when he saw my injury, and went quickly to the kitchen drawers to find a bandage for my hand.

"Melkor came," I explained when I could speak again, shortly after my father had bandaged my hand, watching him go about the kitchen, industriously sweeping up the glass with a broom. He stopped in his tracks, his face only a dim silhouette in the half-light of the room.

"Melkor?" My father echoed, voice shaking once before he steadied it, his hand clenching about the broom handle until his knuckles went white.

"Yes. He offered to aid me--"

"Did you accept?" Finwë interrupted sharply. His voice was steady and calm now, but there was a faint rime of ice about his words that warned me of his anger if I told him I had agreed to Melkor's suggestion.

"No," I answered simply. There was no need to tell him about my moment of indecision, and of the thoughts I had had then. Finwë's tense shadow relaxed, and he let out a great sigh of weariness, as if he had been holding his breath.

"But--Father," I persisted worriedly, "Melkor implied in his last few words--before I shut the doors in his face--" even that triumphant moment brought me little pride now, only a cold fear and a frustration at myself for being so rash, "that my Silmarils were not safe here. He must covet them. I know it; I saw it in him, though he tried to hide it from me. Can we not protect my jewels?"

Finwë turned about to face me, a gentle, reassuring smile on his face, though his eyes were sad. "I would think the Silmarils should be the least of the things you fear for, but yes, they will be kept safe, my son. Formenos is a strong fortress, and few dangers can penetrate it, I deem. Fear not."

"We can increase the guards' numbers twofold, no, threefold--"

"In the morning," Finwë urged, helping me rise to my feet, for I had little strength left in me, "It is too late now. Go get some rest. Tyelpo is looking forward to his blacksmithing lesson tomorrow, and it would not do if his grandfather was unable to attend for lack of sleep."

I went to my chamber, and spent the night alternating between tossing fitfully in bed and going to the window to look out upon my sleeping city. Though I did not want to admit it to myself, when I went to the window I was looking for the first signs of the wrath of Melkor, for indeed infuriated he must have been when I had shut my doors to him. Despite my father's soothing words, the cold, pallid limbs of fear had rooted themselves irrevocably about my heart, wringing out all courage, and I did not get a moment of sleep that night.


	34. Chapter ThirtyFour: The Darkness

_Chapter Thirty-four: The Darkness_

After Melkor's unwelcome visit to Formenos, the last thing I wanted was for more intrusion by the world beyond the city walls. However, not yet three years after I had sent Melkor from my home, we received a message from Manwë himself, brought by Oromë.

I received the Vala in the great anteroom of my citadel, which was hung with banners bearing the colors and sigil of my house, and set with rows of chairs for when I held audience. I sat at the end of the hall upon a great throne, behind which hung a magnificent tapestry Finwë had brought from Tirion, one which my mother had woven, of the coming of the Eldar to Aman.

The hall was indeed a magnificent sight, and even Finwë said it was even finer than where he had held court in Tirion, but Oromë's eyes were solemn and indifferent as he approached where I sat.

"So. The Valar come to meddle in my lot once more," I remarked haughtily, holding my head high. My father stood behind me, and I could feel his silent support like the warmth of a fire at my back in the dead of winter, even when all else was dark and cold.

"The Valar have a right to know the doings of those who dwell in their lands," Oromë countered smoothly, then said, "I bring summons from the Lord Manwë Súlimo to Fëanáro of Formenos. His message is this--_Fëanáro son of Finwë, come and do not deny my bidding. In my love you remain, and you shall be given honor in my halls._ Soon we shall celebrate the flowering and ripening of Valinor in the mansions of Manwë upon Taniquetil's white slopes, and Eldar, Valar, and Maiar alike shall attend. It is the wish of Manwë to see the Eldar become a people undivided by dispute once more, and where better to amend the folly the princes of the Noldor have wrought then in the sight of all the peoples of Aman?"

"It was no folly--it _is_ no folly," I muttered furiously under my breath, and the air grew thick with tension.

"I will not waste words of anger with you, son of Finwë," Oromë replied composedly, "But see to it that you are able to attend the festival upon Taniquetil. It is the wish of the Valar, and it is ill to gainsay them of that wish. Farewell." He walked with even, steady steps from the hall, not once looking back.

"Must they hinder every freedom?" I growled, slamming my fist down on the arm of my throne once Oromë had gone, "If the Eldar are free to come and go as they please in this land, why am I _commanded_--commanded, as if the Valar were my betters!--to be present at their foolish ceremonies? I should leave these shores and have done with it all!"

"Manwë is lord of these lands," Finwë explained from behind me as he strode to my side, "While you dwell here, it is only proper to obey his commands, my son. Go to Taniquetil, and the Valar will be pleased with you."

"Yes, just as pleased with me as with a frivolous lapdog they can convince to do some senseless trick!" I scoffed wrathfully, "I will not be collared like a beast to the foot of Manwë's throne forever like one of their Vanyarin slaves, Father; I will not have it!"

"Please, Fëanáro, do it for me," Finwë implored, his eyes grave with experience, "Your pride is great, but you must overcome it to seek the content of the Valar. It is an arrogant and imprudent deed to wake the rage of the Valar, slow as that great fury may be in coming."

"If it is your wish," I relinquished at last, but then persisted hopefully, "But will you not come with me?"

"No, my son, you must do this alone," Finwë said firmly, his face growing cheerless but resolute. "While the ban lasts upon you that you may not go to Tirion, I hold myself unkinged, and I will not meet my people, who have turned their hearts and tongues against you."

Slowly, reluctantly, I nodded at last to his prayer, my heart filled with a deep unease that came not only from the Valar's summons.

I left early a few mornings later, upon Rokkolaurë and attended by none. My farewells were brief, and only Finwë and my sons came to the gates to witness my passing.

Carnistir and Curufinwë tried to allay me from my journey with hot, furious words, for they were ill-pleased that I was being summoned by force to the thrones of the Valar, and were indignant that the Powers would seek to tarnish our honor once more. But I withstood their furious pleas with nonchalant resignation, and told each of them to cool their wrath while I was gone. All the other sons were unruffled by my departure, save for Makalaurë, who caught my arm when I came to embrace him.

"Father," he said in a low, anxious voice, "Something is going to happen, I know it. Please, do not go. I had the most awful dream last night, about the streets of Formenos running with blood and the light of the Trees fading from the sky. Please, Father--"

"You have always worried too much, Kana," I reassured him, though his eyes were more frightened than I had ever seen them, "Keep your sword at your side and fear nothing. I will be gone for a short while only." I kissed him on the brow, and looked deeply into his eyes. "I will return, I promise you, and right whatever wrongs that may have occurred."

Makalaurë nodded, and the fear receded, though it did not disappear. I continued on last to my father, who smiled as he saw me approach.

"You are right to do this," he told me, "Do not think it ill."

"I hope so," I whispered, and embraced him, "Farewell, Father." Without a glance back for any of them, I mounted up and spurred Rokkolaurë northward. The last time I had gone to Taniquetil, my father had met Indis. Now, when I returned to those pale slopes, I could only hope for a better, but equally enormous, twist of my fate.

I rode hard and fast, and Rokkolaurë never seemed to tire once in the entire journey, for he was Vala-bred and endowed with a speed surpassing that of even the finest Eldarin horses. We were approaching the snowy peak of Taniquetil by noon, and making our way up to the mansions of Manwë and Varda not much later.

Though the mountain air should have been chill and gusty, it was instead strangely warm, though the snows did not melt. At the feet of the mountain range, great fields of ripe wheat grew, ready for the harvest, and the scent of flowers was a delicate undertone in the air. Even from afar, I could hear the sound of many fair voices raised in song, singing praises of Eru, the Valar, and the blossoming of all beautiful things that had come to Valinor.

It was a great festival indeed, if the rumors I had heard were true--the greatest since the arrival of the Eldar in the Undying Lands. There was an abundance of food and drink to be found, and there would be songs and dancing for many days to come. The Noldor had abandoned Tirion to attend, and the streets of Valmar were, no doubt, empty of the usual combination of Vanyar, Maiar, and Valar they normally held.

Only the Teleri of the Three Kindreds of the Eldar were not to be present, for festivals and great celebrations, especially those far from their beloved Sea, were not much to their liking. They remained on the shores, though I could often hear in the distance, the sound of their singing, pale and delicate compared to the closer songs of the Noldor and Vanyar, which were rich and lustrous as the light of Laurelin.

Illustrious event though it was, I had not brought the Silmarils with me. I had left them locked safely away in their subterranean treasury of iron; I would not let the Valar themselves covet their light, as Melkor had said.

Nor did I dress as was befitting such a glorious celebration. I still considered myself a prisoner of the gods, and was dressed in a tunic of unadorned black, a simple gray cloak made of wool, and high dark boots. There were no brooches or circlets to relieve my austere, sober raiment, and the callous severity that both my clothing and face cast was intentional.

I would find no pleasure in the foolish revelry or in the fine foods, or even in the company of my own people. Everyone would know when they saw me that I did not come of my free will, and that I knew the truth of the Valar's pretense of love and tenderness for the Eldar.

I came without fanfare to Ilmarin, the fair palace of Manwë and Varda, and ordered a groom to tend to Rokkolaurë before entering the gates. The festival was on the third of its seven days, but was managing to retain its following of cheerful peoples and music. Before me lay an enormous throng of all the peoples of Valinor, dressed in fine clothes of bright hues and all laughing and talking together. Singing wound its fair way through the chatter, and also the rattle of knives and goblets from the tables where the food lay.

The Valar sat nearby, in even more corporeal forms than when I had seen them last, with only a bearing of heightened nobility to distinguish them from the other races. They were looking down upon the celebrations with silent but fond pleasure, smiles playing at the corners of their mouths.

There was a brief, awed quiet when I entered, before the whispers began, but I ignored all of it, making my way as a drab shadow amid the crowds of merry Maiar and Elves. Some called out to greet me, but I disregarded them as well, keeping my head down often, though my eyes flashed balefully whenever I looked up. I took a seat beneath the shadow of a small, blossom-laden tree, watching the revelry with disdainful eyes, the scent of the lovely flowers about me turning cloying and oversweet in my nose.

How could the Eldar be so ignorant? Like delighted slaves, they flocked to the feet of their keepers, making no move to take off the chains binding them to their jailers. I longed to stand and rally them into rebellion, but remembered Finwë's words, and kept true to my father in earnest. Long I sat in quiet thought, regarding the affair before me with loathing, until a few moments before the mingling of the Trees' light.

"Prince Fëanáro?" I looked up. It was a Maia, looking down at me with amused, smiling blue eyes set in a handsome pale face, his hair gleaming a brilliant white-gold in the light.

"I am Eönwë, herald of the Valar," he explained, by way of introduction, flashing white, even teeth, "Manwë would see you before his throne."

Saying nothing, I stood to my feet and followed him through the masses of people. As we passed through the last few clusters of prattling courtiers, I saw Manwë upon his throne of sapphire glass, with Nolofinwë standing at his side.

My half-brother was dressed in radiant shades of gold, pale yellow, and white, seeming like a straying beam of Laurelin's glow more than ever. His hair, brighter even than Indis', gleamed in the light, and there was a light of constant gladness in his deep blue eyes. Nolofinwë's handsome face broke into a smile when he saw me come near, his expression so sincerely happy and welcoming it made me wince.

"Brother Fëanáro, I greet you," he exclaimed cheerfully, as Manwë looked on, "It is the greatest wish of the Valar that we, the two greatest princes of the Noldor, reconcile our relationship as kindred, and forget all grief done."

"But what of my wound upon you?" I asked contrarily, lifting my chin in quiet defiance.

Nolofinwë's demeanor did not falter for a moment, and he shook his head in a singly elegant, dismissive motion.

"It is nothing. I place it behind me, and as a fault of us both," he replied, though his gray eyes grew sober at mention of our one-sided quarrel at the gates of Finwë's house.

"Nothing indeed," I echoed thoughtfully, trying not to let my suspicion of Nolofinwë's forgiveness come into my voice.

"Yes. Therefore--" He extended his hand to me, and said solemnly, "As I promised, I do now. I release you, and remember no injustice."

Forgiveness--the thing I wanted both most and least in that moment. It would buy me freedom from the Valar who longed to see me leashed and obedient among their other thralls, yet would entangle me further in debt to my half-brother. Could I choose honor over my own pride?

At last, something whispered at me to obey, and I took Nolofinwë's hand in my own. It was the first time I had ever touched the first son of Indis out of kindness or any sort of benevolence, and I tried not to shiver or think too hard upon it.

"Half-brother in blood, full brother in heart I will be," Nolofinwë promised me industriously, sounding as though the words came from his heart, which--knowing him--they probably did. I was both revolted and a bit flattered by his honesty. "You will lead, and I will ever follow. May no new sorrow or doubt divide us."

The light falling about us was a brilliant blend of silver and gold; the merging of the lights was at hand, and night was near. I could already feel it in the air--the burgeoning presence of twilight that lent a beautiful musky silence to the land. Such a serene atmosphere could only bode well for the hour of my making peace with my half-brother.

"I hear you," I told Nolofinwë, voice hard and stiff at first, though I let it soften as my reluctance faded. Still, I swallowed hard before I added, "So be it."

Suddenly, even as we began to release our hands, the Trees' light flared suddenly to a blistering brightness, as if in a great agony, and then abruptly went out, plunging us all into a pit of inescapable black.

For a moment, there was only a still, eerie silence, in which all I could hear was the thudding of my heart. In the wild wandering of my eyes for some source of light, I looked upward, and saw the stars shining in their full glory, blazing like cold beacons in the firmament for a brief instant before even they guttered and went out, covered by some suffocating dark cloak.

Then, all at once, screams and shouts assaulted me like lances from every direction at once, and I raised a hand to my eyes as if to shield myself from a vivid light, brighter than that of a thousand forge-fires, though now I was trying to shield myself from a darkness that fed on the fears of my very spirit. It was deeper than the dimmest of shadows, blacker than the darkest coal. Without even the gentle light of Telperion to guide and comfort me, I could see nothing, only a dark more profound than the black of my eyelids when I shut my eyes.

Terror needled through me, gnawing at me as if it were a dog worrying a bone, and I fought the urge to curl up on the ground and die of sheer fright. With growing despair, I tried to remember the reassuring starlight, but even that moments--old memory eluded me. There was a great evil in this night, which prowled everywhere at once, seeking the flesh of its fearful prey. I could sense the pungent malice like a strong, vile scent in the air, thick and syrupy-dark, as it raked its icy claws through the shattered black heavens. The screams had faded now, as if all were afraid of revealing their presence to the evil that stalked in this dark, and only the faint sound of weeping and moaning echoed in their wake.

After a while in which we cringed with dread in the utter dark, the resonant voices of the Valar became clear among the cries and grieved sobbing, and I listened hard to their words, seeking comfort even in the voices of my enemies.

"It is Melkor's doing," Manwë was saying, in a voice low and hard with grief, "He has darkened the light of the Trees."

"My Trees. . .what has he done to my Trees?" a woman's voice whispered, rent with tears and shuddering, as though she was gasping for air. I guessed it was Yavanna, for it had been she that had made the Trees.

"Curse that foul mongrel!" Oromë's voice snarled, "I will follow after him and make him repent his malicious deeds!"

"I shall follow you, my brother," echoed a fierce voice, no doubt that of Tulkas, who was the greatest in bodily strength of all the Valar, "We shall hunt him to the ends of the earth."

At this, the Valar began speaking all at once, some in argument and others in agreement, until Manwë's voice rose again and silenced them.

"He is perhaps too far gone," Manwë told them, "But perhaps he is not after all. Go, Oromë and Tulkas, and take your great hosts with you. If Melkor can be apprehended, then so he shall be. We who remain shall gather the people back to Valmar, and see what shadow he has placed on our realm."

There was a sudden rushing of footsteps in the night, and voices called to each other and answered in growing numbers. I knew Oromë and Tulkas were wasting none of the time they had been given to wait for Melkor to escape futher.

Absently, as the last vestiges of my fear faded, I echoed Yavanna in wondering what Melkor had done to the Trees to thus smother their light in this blinding dark.

As the people began to recover their wits, and the rumble of the hooves of the Valar's host could be heard on the plains below, the remaining Valar held true to their words and began organizing a journey to Valmar to survey the damage Melkor had done. Those who had traveled to Taniquetil by horse rode to the Valar's darkened city, and those who had come on foot were provided with steeds, and soon we were all riding in a great mass for Valmar, huddled together in fear and dread. The incessant blackness that had once swallowed us whole was now beginning to fade, and the stars shone dimly through the thinning veil upon us as we came to the hill of the Ezellohar.

I would not have recognized the Ezellohar if I had not known it well, for my memories did not bear much resemblance to what I saw before me then. The grass was withered and black beneath our feet, and the thrones of the Valar were thrown carelessly upon the blackened earth, their adamant glass shattered by massive blows. Even the high seat of Manwë lay in ruin, the elegant runes and carvings that had once covered it in beauty now befouled with murk and marks as if from heavy strokes.

But most shocking of all was the two scorched, lightless husks that had once been the Trees. Every leaf on their once lovely boughs had been turned to tattered black shreds at the feet of the Trees that had bore them, and the branches reached desperately to the starry heavens, empty and skeletal, as if begging for mercy from the horror that had been dealt them. Upon each trunk, great sheaves of the scalded bark had been ripped away, and the tender greenwood had been stabbed and torn at viciously, though no sap ran from the wounds, as if it had all been sucked dry.

The sight was not as shocking as the realization that the ever constant, ever fair light of the Trees was gone, seemingly forever. They had always shone in Valinor, ever since I had been only a child, and I could not remember a day without their light. No more would the people of Aman be greeted by the golden radiance of Laurelin at dawn, or be serenaded to slumber by the gentle rays of Telperion.

From afar, and advancing rapidly, I heard the thunder of hooves over the grassland, and knew Tulkas and Oromë were returning. When they came to a halt before us, Manwë looked to Tulkas curiously, but the Vala shook his head in frustration and grief--they had not found Melkor.

About me, many of the Eldar and Maiar were weeping openly at the loss of the Trees, while others stared at the sight bleakly, like lost children, and I myself was fighting back the sorrow, even though I was less prone to such emotion.

But our feelings all dimmed in compare to the sorrow of Yavanna. At the sight of the shadowy, dead Trees and the absence of their light, she had fallen to her knees, tears sliding down her cheeks as she looked hopelessly upon the desolation of the black hill. At last, at the urging of the other Valar, she had stood again to her feet, but only to reach out with trembling fingers to touch the bleak, dark boles of the Trees, and to see the branches crumble to dust in her fingers. At the sight of a mighty Vala so desperate and forlorn, the many gathered at the Ezellohar cried the harder. I remained motionless and staring, only watching the movements of fate before me.

At last, Yavanna stood to her feet, turning a tear-stained face to all assembled about her. "The light of the Trees has passed away, and lives now only in the housings of the Silmarils of Fëanáro," she told them, then looking toward me with sudden hope, "Foresighted indeed was he! Even for those who are mightiest under Ilúvatar there is some work that they may accomplish once, and once only. The light of the Trees I brought into being, and within Eä I can do so never again. Yet had I but a little of the light, I could recall the life of the Trees, before further harm is done and their roots decay; and then our hurt shall be healed, and the malice of Melkor confounded."

I knew what she was trying to say, trying to convince me to do, and felt all eyes settle upon me as a source of new hope, but I shied away from the thought of breaking my Silmarils for their light. Yavanna spoke of work that one could achieve only once in their lives, and I thought of how long and hard I had labored over the three jewels. Would I--_could _I--bring to ruin the glorious height of a lifetime of relentless work, even if for the good of many?

I was mired so deep in this thought that I could barely hear Manwë urging, "Do you heed the words of Yavanna, Fëanáro son of Finwë? Will you grant what she asks?"

Spellbound by the frantic considerations of my mind, I did not answer him.

"Speak, Noldo, yes or no!" barked Tulkas impatiently, despite the murmurs of the other Valar to still his wrath, "Who will deny Yavanna? Did not the light of the Silmarils come from his work in the beginning?"

"Be not hasty!" Aulë chastised Tulkas, again speaking in my defense. I marveled at his seemingly boundless faith in me. "We ask of him a greater thing than you know. Let him have peace yet awhile."

But I was growing weary of being snapped at and goaded into speech. After Aulë spoke, I replied resentfully, "For even the lesser people, as for the great, there are some deeds that one might accomplish only once; and in that deed one's heart may rest. It may be that I can unlock my jewels, but never again shall I make their like; and if I must break them," my voice rose in passionate despair at the thought, "I shall also break my heart, and I shall be slain, the first of all the Eldar in Aman."

There was a shocked silence at my insolence, but in the stillness Mandos murmured, "Not the first."

Confused, I ignored Mandos, and turned back within myself to think. Would the Valar never stop harassing me for my jewels? Were they not mine, to keep as I would? The gods were growing to be more my enemies by the hour, and I did not trust the safekeeping of the Silmarils in their hands.

I remembered, despite myself, Melkor's advice that the Silmarils were not safe in the realms of the Valar. He had once been a Vala as much as they were now, with perhaps a clear understanding of their thoughts gained from experience; why should I trust the Valar, when I trusted their kinsman not at all? To leave the Silmarils in the hands of any of them would to be to entrust mice in the keeping of snakes and cats.

Driven by my anger, I cried, "I will not give you the Silmarils of free will. But if the Valar will force me to do so, then I will know indeed that Melkor is of their kindred!"

"You have spoken, son of Finwë," Mandos rumbled emotionlessly, and a great moan of despair rose from the throats of all. I was aware that the gaze many of the Eldar rested upon me had now turned angry and despairing, but I cared little. What did their opinions matter to me? All of Aman seemed to have been prejudiced against me from the first. Why would I grant them such a lavish gift?

Nienna, the Vala who reigned over pity and grief, knelt at the foot of the trees, murmuring a low, sad song as she wept in desolate despair. Many who had ceased their weeping in hope that I would relinquish the Silmarils also cried anew, and I turned away from the spectacle in rage and unfeeling sullenness, angry that they would try to tug at my heart even after I had refused their plea. The Silmarils were mine. I would not abandon them to the careless hands and the ruthless, covetous hearts of the Valar.

Author's Note:

Now that we've reached the real root of this entire darn story, these next few chapters will be coming fast and furious for a while, pausing only to draw heavily on Silm canon… BRACE YOURSELVES!

Love,

Blodeuedd


	35. Chapter ThirtyFive: Finwë

_Chapter Thirty-five: Finwë_

I had only stood such for a few moments, absently stroking the muzzle of Rokkolaurë and gazing upon the shadowy horizon, before I saw a small host of riders making for the Ezellohar, the now-bright starlight gleaming upon the emblem of my house on their shields.

Messengers from Formenos! The hours of darkness in which we had left Taniquetil's slopes must have dragged on like frightening years for those I had left behind. I wondered what had befallen my people, and hoped my city was unbroken by the threat of Melkor's treachery.

At last the riders came to the foot of the Ezellohar, and I saw that Maitimo was at their head, girt in a hauberk of gleaming mail and with his sword sheathed at his side. He looked every inch the proud warrior upon his charger, but when he and his company dismounted, his eyes grew frightened and searched the crowds desperately, seeking something.

"Where is my father, the Prince Fëanáro?" he demanded, pushing through the masses of people, "I must see him!" There was a wild, haunted look to his features, and I could see his hands tremble even as he mercilessly shoved people aside. For a moment his gaze roved frantically, dazedly over the crowd, brushing past mine in fearful anxiety. Worried though I was, I was briefly reminded of the senseless, bewildered fear I had seen in all my children at some time or another, whenever they awoke from nightmares and came to the rooms I shared with Nerdanel. They had always been so terrified from the harrowing ordeal of running down the darkened hallway alone to us that they hardly knew where they were. Despite the fact Maitimo had reached his majority many years before, I could see that same blind fear in the corners of his eyes.

"I am here," I called to him over the bobbing heads of the throng, and Maitimo looked to me with a sudden clarity in his gray gaze; he had awoken from the feverish half-dreams now, and had returned to stark reality, but instead of relief, there was only dread in his expression as he made toward me.

"Father!" Maitimo cried as he neared, and grabbed desperately at my forearms, his face seeking to see he had my full attention, "Blood and darkness! They are gone! Taken! Tyelkormo tried to warn me--I am so sorry, Father, I failed you--" He staggered in his heartache as if drunk, and I was barely able to hold him upright.

"Who is gone? What is gone?" I commanded him to answer, fright and anxiety stealing into my own heart as my voice grew sharp with the emotions.

Maitimo hung his head, refusing to look at me, muttering under his breath as he slumped even further into dismayed despair, and my fear turned hot with frustration.

"Speak to me!" I shouted roughly, giving him a forceful shake to bring him to his senses. He looked up at me, face streaked with tears, his turbulent gray eyes mottled with shades of steel and sorrow. His words came out in one, awkward rush, streaked with guilt and horror.

"Finwë the king is slain by the hand of Melkor, and the Silmarils are stolen!"

My reaction was like to as if he had struck me full across the face. Finwë was not dead. My very skin seemed to go cold with denial and fear. My Silmarils were not stolen--my father was not dead! What fool did Maitimo take me for?

"You are lying!" I hissed furiously, my voice a fierce whisper as if I were frightened someone might overhear, though already the crowd's attention was upon us as they muttered among themselves. Like hammer upon anvil, blood pounded in my temples, blocking out thought and reason. "You shame your house with these lies! Tell me the truth! You are lying to me, Maitimo Nelyafinwë!"

Maitimo shook his head, and suddenly I realized why he was struggling so hard to be free of my strong grip--he was not struggling, but trembling with fear. Tearing his gaze away from mine, he motioned to one of his men, who brought forth a bier shrouded in a sheet of white cloth. Upon the expanse of silken white fabric rested the circlet I had made my father so long ago, its diamonds and sapphires glowing like the tears of the stars.

"What happened?" I asked, voice suddenly weary and rough. No one answered me. Maitimo looked away, wringing his hands, his whole body slumping with the staggering weight of his despondency. I had a vague shadow hovering in the back of my mind, whispering to my reluctant ears what had happened, but I shook it away like a stifling woolen blanket on a summer's night. Trying to kneel with knees that were stiffly unbending, I bent over the bier to run my hand over the sleek cloth, pulling it back to reveal the cold, deadened features of my father.

His handsome, pale face was slack and emotionless, and his eyes open, unblinking, and staring vacantly into the sky. His blue tunic, the one he had worn on the day of my departure, was stained with dark blood. His face also was running with blood, from a deep gash upon his head.

My heart wrenched painfully at the sight, and I felt weighed down, heavy with a life I did not deserve. Finwë deserved life--more than me, more than even the Valar themselves, he deserved to live.

Behind me, as if from far away, I could hear Nolofinwë make his way through the crowd, hear him cry hoarsely, "_No!_" as he saw Finwë's body.

Ignoring him, I bent and touched my father's face gently, tentatively. His skin was as cold as ice, and my fingers danced away in horror as my insides knotted in apprehensive unsteadiness. I laid my head over his bloodied chest, listening for the comforting, steady heartbeat I had heard each time I had embraced him. There was no answering sound in that hollow, empty place where his heart had been.

"Father?"

Slowly, I realized the truth of Mandos' words. Another had been slain before me. Dizzily, I realized if I were to die at the loss of my Silmarils, I would not be the first.

"What happened to him?" I heard Nolofinwë ask Maitimo. For once I did not care about his prying into this grave matter. He was only a shadow beyond my sight, as distant as one of the stars.

"My lords," Maitimo replied, raising his voice so all would hear, though the added volume did nothing to hide the raw, mournful agony in his voice, "It was the day of festival, but the king was heavy with grief at the departure of my father. A foreboding was on him, it seemed, and he wished he had not sent his son from him. . ."

_Why had I gone? _Guilt added to the tumult of reeling emotions inside me. Maybe if I had stayed. . .if I had been there to protect him. . .if only. . . Raw pain flooded my body, seeming to churn my insides to blood.

"He refused to leave the house," Maitimo continued, his voice rising through my thoughts, "My brothers and I were irked by the silent idleness of the day, and we went riding in the hills."

Why did Finwë not go with them? He would have enjoyed a ride in the hillocks beyond Formenos' walls with his grandsons. I remembered how much he had loved my children, and how he had always visited our home to spend as much time as he could with them. Why had he not accompanied them for one last lingering day of innocence, before all innocence was lost?

"Our faces were northward, but suddenly we were aware that all was growing dim. The Light was fading. In dread we turned and rode back in haste. . ."

_Maybe there is hope_, I found myself thinking through the torment that fell upon me like a second night, as if what had been done could yet be undone, _Perhaps there is hope yet. . ._ The story had not ended, and I bluntly refused to believe the most apparent of endings, ignoring it like an unwanted visitor to my mind.

". . .But great shadows rose up before us. Even as we drew near to Formenos the darkness came upon us; and in the midst was a blackness that enveloped of the house of Fëanáro like a cloud."

Had Finwë left the house in time? He was wise and nimble enough. Perhaps, under the cover of the premature night, he had gotten out just before. . .

"We heard the sound of great blows struck. Out of the cloud we saw a sudden flame of fire. And then there was one piercing cry. But when we urged on our horses they reared and cast us to the ground, and they wildly fled away. We lay on the earth without strength, for the cloud moved onward toward us, blinding our sight. But it passed us by and moved away north, at great speed. Melkor was there, we do not doubt. But not alone! Some other power was with him," Maitimo fought to be heard over the gasps and murmurs, and fear entered his voice at the memory, "Some huge evil accompanied him, and even as it passed it robbed us of wit and will.

"When we could move again we came to the house. There we found Grandfather slain at the door. His head was wounded as by a great mace of iron. We found no others--all had fled, and he had stood alone, defiant. That is plain, for his sword lay beside him, twisted and untempered as if by lightning. . ."

His sword. The sword I had made him. Small defense had it proved him against the darkness! I did not deserve the title of blacksmith, if I could not make a sword to save my father's life. Tears rose in me, struggling to get free, but I refused to weep.

Finwë was _not_ dead, I forced myself to think, but the thought felt as staled and false as fool's gold. My denial was a crumbling wall, beset upon by the hammers and picks of Maitimo's words.

Yet still, even as I realized the truth, I could not bring myself to accept it yet. There was still some undiscovered place in me that still considered my father alive, that _felt_ him alive and still sensed his unreal presence, shining through the mist like a flame. It was as if he stood behind me, utterly real and tangible, and yet each time I turned to find him, saw nothing but darkness. He was there. If I could feel him, he was still there.

"All the house was broken and ravaged. Nothing is left," I could hear plainly how Maitimo's voice ached with pain, but I could feel no pity for him as my emotions slowly rose to their furious climax. Why had he not fought at his grandfather's side? Coward! Had I not taught him better?

"The treasury of iron is torn apart. The Silmarils are taken!" Maitimo's voice faded in wretched conclusion. The crowds again burst into clamor, some wailing in utter misery, others, in their powerless rage and sorrow, jeering at Maitimo and cursing his family.

I ignored it all--my mind and heart was bent on Finwë. I looked at him again, seeing clearly in my imagination how he would stir and blink, shaking the dark magic of Melkor from his eyes until he was ready to stand regal and proud before his people once more. But my imagination did not govern the world. Finwë remained motionless.

What was he waiting for?

"Wake up," I whispered to him urgently, gazing into his sightless eyes, which were dull and empty. They filled with stars, as they must have been when he had awoken in Cuiviénen, so long ago.

When I was young, I remembered with absent wistfulness, I had always come to Finwë in the night after waking from a nightmare, and he had always comforted me, until morning, if necessary. Why did he not wake now, and lend me comfort in this nightmare?

I could not weep, for my mind refused to acknowledge the inevitable conclusion. When Finwë remained still, a sudden fury woke in me, and I stood to my feet to glare with the hatred of all the world at my eldest son.

"Incompetent, useless fool! Weak child!" I snarled suddenly, my hands longing to close around his throat. It was Maitimo's fault, I knew it--he would die for this! "Why did you not defend him? You coward! You probably hid in the shadows and _let_ him be slain! You are no better than a follower of Melkor! Go join the Enemy's dark ranks! Become one of his wretched ilk! It is all that you are good for!

"Better you had died in Finwë's place, you insignificant, perfidious craven of a son! Better _I_ had died in his place! Anyone but him! _Finwë is dead!_"

The last was a cry that rent the silken curtain of midnight, cutting into my throat like a knife blade.

I had admitted it. My father, whom I had loved best in the entire world, was dead. It was true. The veil all my desperate hopes faded and fell from my eyes, and I saw the world more clearly than ever before. Finwë would not wake. He was gone, gone forever. He had left me as Míriel had left me. I was alone now.

And strangely, I was disgusted amid my grief, disgusted at myself for admitting the truth. I could have kept denying it, living deliberately in ignorance, yet I had chosen the painful truth. Now I could not turn back from my own words and acceptance, and the only thing left to me was to rail and rage against the world as I had ever done.

I stood, almost staggering, to my feet before the assembled people, and cried, "Curse the hour in which I left for Taniquetil. Accursed be the Valar who summoned me there!

"Their foul devising has led to this tragedy, but not unaided--cursed also be the name of Melkor! _Moringotto_ my kin shall know him as henceforth, for he is the Black Foe of all the world! He is a cowardly thief and a pitiless murderer who strikes in the dark, a whisperer of lies and hatred! Curse the slayer of the King and his spineless cohorts forever! He shall feel the wrath and the blades of the house of Fëanáro come down upon him for his deplorable crimes!"

Maitimo advanced toward me, hands outstretched, pleading for forgiveness. With a bitter sob, I flung him away from me, and ran heedless in the night, wanting to escape from the grief that would always follow me. Nothing on earth could ever give me what I wanted most.

Long and heedlessly I ran, weeping and shuddering in boundless grief, and when my legs gave out beneath me and I could run no more, I fell to the earth, shaking with sobs, whispering to the night and the frozen stars, "Father. . .come back. . .I love you. . .Father, please. . ."

At last, I sat up and gathered myself together, hugging my knees beneath my chin, and whispered my father's name over and over like a litany, drawing deep, shuddering breaths in between. In my anguish I did not hear Maitimo's approach. He knelt beside me, a mere shadow in a darker night.

"Father."

I ignored him coldly, gazing out on the lightless land before me, black as my weeping heart, stabbed through by the bitter starlight. The first of the emotions to return to me was anger, as it had ever been. I accepted it as a cold traveler would accept a warm goblet of wine--I did not care if I burned myself in my wrath, only that I got the warmth from the emotion I needed.

Finwë had ignored my pleas, so now I would disregard those of my own son in turn. Maitimo had let his grandfather die, after all--I would never speak to him again. He was not my son. He had never been my son. If he had truly been of my blood, he would have died for Finwë.

"Father." Maitimo's voice was louder, and had an imperative tone, but I still did not reply. He had no right to order me to speak. He was a stranger to me now, not an heir, not a son. Never again a son.

"Fëanáro."

Against my will, I turned to him out of sheer force of habit. Disrespectful wretch; I had never called _my_ father by his name aloud, I thought dully. But Finwë had always called me Curufinwë. He had loved me.

"Father," Maitimo whispered, his ragged voice thin and quiet in the darkness, "I am sorry." His face was grim and sad in the light of the stars, begging for my forgiveness. I closed my eyes to the piteous sight and wept anew, the wisdom and courage of many years falling from my shoulders, leaving me feeling alone and frightened in the dark, fragile shelter the closing of my eyes had given me.

"You always said," I heard Maitimo murmur, "That life is an anvil on which one is either broken or tempered. Do not let this break you, Father. There is still hope beyond Grandfather's death."

"I want to die," I muttered numbly, "I will break under the hammer, this time." With only the fuel of my anger to sustain me, I would gladly perish in the slumber death brought me. After all, I would see my father again if I died.

"You can wish for death all you want, Father," Maitimo's voice was cool and soothing as I felt him embrace me. I let myself relax as best I could, trying desperately to find some peace in the presence of my firstborn. "But the love of seven sons shall bind your feet to the circles of this world no matter what."

I opened my eyes slowly, but of my own volition, and saw the open truthfulness in my son's stormy gaze. He was right. All my sons loved me. I could never leave them. Finwë would understand. He had had me for a son, and had loved me too. He would not have wanted me to forsake his grandchildren, the last generation of his true kindred, to the cold dark. If not for my sake, I would not abandon my children through death as he had abandoned me.

"Your words give me heart, Nelya," I whispered fondly, stroking his coppery hair lovingly, "I thank you."

For a while, we both looked on the stars with happier eyes. I was not the brooding, sullen son of Míriel, vessel of barely contained rage; Maitimo was not the disgraced firstborn. We were merely father and son, surveying the night with eyes filled with both indomitable pride and boundless hope. If perhaps I had lingered so a bit longer, and let my rage fully cool, my family would not have suffered the wounds they did in later years. We would have remained in Aman, and not stained our hands with the senselessly spilt blood of our kin.

But as I looked on Maitimo's copper-dark locks, I remembered the color of the blood darkening Finwë's tunic. And I remembered who had killed my father. I remembered who had stolen my Silmarils. I remembered whose name I had cursed before the Valar. I knew who justly deserved my revenge.

_Moringotto._

I stood to my feet, my teeth clenched in grim, sorrowful resolve. "Come, Maitimo," I commanded offhandedly, voice thickening with hate for the thief of my Silmarils and slayer of my father. I would waste no time, now that all stood revealed, now that the grief had burned into a fierce desire for revenge, a wrath that frightened even me with its vengeful intensity. "We have much to do. Yes," I repeated grimly to myself, "Much to do."


	36. Chapter ThirtySix: The Oath

_Chapter Thirty-six: The Oath_

When Maitimo and I returned to the devastated hill that was once the Ezellohar, the Eldar were already beginning to leave for their homes, departing in large groups and never alone, their bright eyes frightened, their beautiful faces subdued. It was only at the commands of the Valar that they left; even if the Eldar had had to choose freely, I knew, they would have huddled meekly at the feet of the gods until some action was taken, and then followed the Powers' orders blindly into slavery. Disgust filled me at the thought, and I wasted no time in finding Rokkolaurë and leading the horse to my son.

"Nelya," I instructed him firmly, "I want you to return to Formenos and find your brothers."

He nodded, but then hesitated, eyes wary. "Will you come with me?"

The part of me that was father to him saw the fear deep within Maitimo's gaze, fear of what awaited him in the shattered tranquility of the ravaged city, but the hard knots of resolve that had bound themselves about me did not let me falter.

"No, my son, you must go alone. Take Rokkolaurë, for the horses of your host must be exhausted and frightened. He will give you transport swifter than the winds. When all your brothers are with you, go to Tirion. I will meet you there."

I sighed mournfully, glancing back to where Finwë's body had lain. He was gone now; they were likely laying him some dark tomb, far away from the warmth of the world. "I have duties to attend to now," I said, reminding myself as well as my son, "I am the King of the Noldor now. I must go to my people in this time of need, as I have long been trained to do."

"But, Father, the ban of the Valar does not permit you to leave Formenos for many years more to come--"

"The Valar do not rule my life any longer," I interjected, my voice pitilessly hard. There. I was saying it out loud; let all who wanted to hear my words. "I will not let them. Unless it is true that we are their slaves, I will go where I will in this land for as long as I walk its shores. If they deal out consequence, so be it. My death at their hands will only lead to the Eldar's rebellion, and so shall my life, if I can help it. Either way, I will be their ruin."

Maitimo's eyes were bright with a strange mixture of frightened liberation and admiring dread as he mounted Rokkolaurë, and I watched him spur the horse and ride to the dark horizon, my eyes never leaving his tall shadow. As my son faded and blurred amid the shadows, I turned to the host of Formenos behind me.

They were not many--perhaps a dozen, maybe a little more--but I recognized them as men who staunchly backed me, and knew they would accept my leadership, even if I were to rebel against all they had been raised to love and believe. I knew they would follow me to Tirion.

"Find new mounts," I ordered them, "We are leaving as soon as possible."

"Where do we go, King Fëanáro?" One asked, and I could see from the others' faces he spoke the thoughts of all.

_King_. I savored the sound of the title, but was it truly mine now? I could hardly believe I had ever thought it my birthright. Finwë had always been King, not me. With him dead, I had to attempt to come to terms with several things I had not expected for many more years--such as this matter of kingship. I had always been heir, the firstborn, never a monarch. I had been ready to wait several more years until I would sit upon the throne. Now--all that was different. The one thing I knew was that I had to take up the crown as soon as possible, before some Valar-following fool sought to wrest it from me. If these gloomy times asked it of me, then King I would be, to the full extent of my power and will.

"To Tirion, my friends," I replied, "We go to Tirion."

Before we left, I learned that Finwë had been buried by Nolofinwë and his followers, a short way from the Ezellohar, just outside the white walls of Valmar. With only moments left before I was to meet with my followers, I took a detour to his grave.

The numb, painfully powerless grief and fury that had first filled me at the tidings of his death had faded, leaving me with an equally agonizing emptiness and yearning. As I knelt at the foot of the newly made mound, I wept again, tears falling like rain upon the fresh-turned earth. Even the wrath that painfully filled me to the full faded reverently as I regarded the tomb of Finwë. I simply could not remain angry in his presence, whether he was dead or alive; he had always found some consolation for my dreary thoughts. It had always been that way.

But if only Finwë could come back! Even if for a moment only, I felt his return would mark an end to all the sorrow and darkness. He would pull our ruined people back upon their feet, find a way to apprehend the vile Moringotto and force him to return my Silmarils to their rightful home. The wounds would heal, and shadow would fail. I needed him so badly, to guide me, to lead me to a place where this raw, bleeding misery could not lie in wait for my coming. I felt as if all I could do was weakly attempt to take his place, that I could only feebly offer what he had commanded, only uncertainly perform what deeds he had done with such regal swiftness and surety.

But as I wept, my feelings of worthlessness and loss faded to a bleakly disheartened acceptance. He would not come back--not now, not ever. I needed to learn my role as King well, for it was a part I would play to the end of my days.

"Father," I whispered tenderly, gazing at the tomb as though I could see through the cold soil to where he lay, as if in sleep, "Forgive me, but I cannot wait forever for you, not while your murderer walks freely on this earth. I must go, and I may never see you again. But if farewell this be, let it be. I cannot stand idle forever, remembered as the cowardly son who did not avenge his beloved father.

"You understand me more than anyone else, so you must understand my purpose. You understood me when even I did not." I stood, finally able to control my tears and keep myself from giving in to the urge to tarry at my father's side forever.

"Do not forget your Spirit of Fire," I murmured softly, eyes not leaving the grave, "For he will never, ever forget you."

Though my heart ached, I set my jaw and mounted my horse, turning toward the direction of Tirion to meet my people.

Some profound, shared passion must have suffused the hearts of my men and their steeds, for we rode swifter than the winds to the city of the Noldor. I cannot truly count the hours it took, for there was no light from Laurelin to herald the dawn of a new day, but I know short time indeed we made of the trip.

We found Tirion wreathed in a fog, brought in by winds coming from the Sea, as it often was during the spring. Before the darkening of Valinor, when Telperion's radiance had shone through the misty eddies, it had seemed like a silver cloak blanketing the towers and walls in a safe, impenetrable shield. But this new, nearly lightless shadow lent an eerie, suspicious feeling to the night, and a needling, persistent fear of what waited in the tainted pale murkiness wrapped about us. Like me, the Noldorin city had been prematurely bereaved of its innocence and safety, thrust into the turmoil of a dark new world that cared little for the minds or hearts of its dwellers.

When we reached the city walls, I divided my men into groups, sending them to different parts of the city, bearing one message that differed little from one company to another.

"Tell them that the King's firstborn son returns," I directed them all before we separated, "Tell them to gather at the foot of the Mindon, near the house of Finwë, and to waste no time in their coming."

Silently, they rode off into the empty streets of Tirion. The Noldor who had returned had withdrawn into the small comforts and safety of their homes, too terrified of what might wait beyond their doors to leave their thresholds.

Somehow, I promised myself as I rode up the hill to the Mindon, I would make them forget that fear. I would fill them with the same fiery wrath and desire for vengeance that burned in me. Their dignity and wellbeing would be returned to them, and they would stand majestic and prominent among the Three Kindreds once more.

Tonight, I would rally them to my side. I would rally them to the crown of the Noldor.

I came at last to the lush hill at the heart of the city, looking up bleakly at the Mindon. Despite the darkness, a constant lamp burned pale and weak in the tower's highest window, burning in a thin, insubstantial shaft out to somewhere beyond the Sea. Someone in this dreary world had lit it, with a hope for a future that would scatter the memory of this terrible hour like smoke in the winds of time.

A short distance from me, down the grassy slopes, I could see Finwë's house, familiar and yet unknown to me. How much time had passed since I had seen that regal abode or visited those who dwelt therein? Would I be a stranger or a resident if I dared walk within its corridors again?

The windows of the house were bright with lights, and flickering with passing shadows moving in urgency from one window of gold candlelight to another. No doubt, the rest of Finwë's family had learned of his death. Indis, Faniel, Arafinwë, and Findis. They must have come together in this dire time, torn by the same grief that ravaged us all.

I savored briefly the irony of the moment--for I knew while Indis and her children wept and sorrowed, Míriel must be with my father now, in the shadowy hall where the dead walk. I felt a fierce pang of longing as I thought of that faraway place, and the two parents who now dwelt there, but also another onslaught of grim fury. I_ would_ make Moringotto pay for his blasphemous crimes, and dearly. He would weep as I had wept tonight, begging for a mercy that would never come, as it had never come for me.

I smiled a dour, cheerless smile through my bleak thoughts, for I could see torches burning in the night among the houses of Tirion. Their gold fire bobbed through the darkened streets, making for where I stood. The message was being heard, and heeded at that, I realized. The Noldor knew I had something important to say if I was defying the Valar's will thus, standing on the soil of the city I had been exiled from for twelve years. They came with all the haste I had commanded, whether they loved me or hated me, for their curiosity would in the end undo the misgivings of both.

Suddenly, from behind, I heard the clamor of hoofbeats in the darkness. I reeled about, fear clouding my vision for a moment as I reached for the nonexistent sword at my waist. Had Moringotto returned to deal out the same death to the son that he had given the father?

"Show yourself," I barked.

But then the feeble light of the Mindon fell upon the rider's face, and I saw Curufinwë emerge from the shadow, sitting his horse with dignity, his body tall and erect in the saddle. His sword was slung in a baldric over his back, and he bore a shield with the sigil of our once-proud house emblazoned upon it. He looked every inch a proud warrior, but his usually bright, inquisitive eyes were dimmed with the same remembering, wary fear I had seen in Maitimo, like that of a frightened animal caught in the hunter's snare who knows its doom is near. His taut features relaxed as much as they could when his dark eyes saw me, and woe supplanted his fright.

"Father. . ." he murmured, dismounting and all but running to me. For a moment his voice was as frail as the Mindon lamplight, then his face stiffened again with noble pride. "I brought your sword and mail, Father," he told me, eyes starved for even the faintest light of my approval in this eternal dusk, wan though it might prove in compare.

"Thank you, Atarinkë," I replied gratefully as he brought them from his saddle. He smiled back at me, eyes bright with a ghost of happiness, his expression telling me how grateful he was in return to see me still strong in this doom-wrought night.

As I took the sword and buckled it at my side, my other sons emerged from the dark, armed and mailed as Curufinwë was. Maitimo came last, ensuring his younger brothers' protection, riding Rokkolarë with a stern but alert hand. They all dismounted as one as they saw me, rushing to my side, silently pleading for the reassurance their maturity would not allow them to ask for aloud.

"All is well," I told them in the best calm, firm tone I could manage, "I am here. Fear nothing."

"The people of Formenos are behind us," Tyelkormo said quietly, managing a weak but wry grin, "Their only wish, it seems, is to follow you, Father."

"Good," I approved softly, "We will need everyone here."

As I turned about to face the city at my feet again, I saw that the Noldor were already gathered, watching me with eyes glimmering inquisitively in the red torchlight. I looked down upon their untold numbers, smiling that same cold, empty smile. There was no joy in me, only the quiet acknowledgement that my commands had been met.

The still, gloomy hush was as thick and suffocating as the air in a windowless room, for the Noldor were growing impatient and unnerved by my long silence; but I would not speak until the people of Formenos arrived as well.

Soon they did, appearing like wraiths out of the black beyond our torches' reach, mingling the lights of Tirion with their own torches. In short time, I was not looking out upon a shadowy, faceless mass, but a sea of guttering, smoldering flames that crackled and blazed in the silence of the night.

An ironic first audience for the Spirit of Fire.

"All of you know the dark tidings that have come to us of late," I began, my mouth dry but my voice hot with already burgeoning fervor, "My father, the King Finwë, is dead, slain at the hand of Melkor, and the Silmarils, the treasured pride of our people, have been taken. But do not despair, for at least in this dark hour you will not be leaderless. I, Fëanáro, take the duty of kingship to myself, by the right granted me as the eldest son of Finwë." My eyes subtly sought out Nolofinwë in the throng, and found him.

His handsome, silhouetted face was stunned, but was steadily growing accepting and compliant. In his damnable loyalty, Nolofinwë would not give up the duties he had promised in his oath to me, and would not oppose my next announcement. Triumphant, I nodded my head ever so slightly at him before continuing, "I relieve my half-brother Nolofinwë of all duties to the people as my father's regent."

At this, there was a rash of cheers from the Formenos populace, but the applause were quickly stifled by the murmurs of those who had been Nolofinwë's followers, who were indeed the greater number. I could hear dismay and disgust in their tones, and suddenly someone cried, faceless and unseen, "You are an exile! Get you gone to your caves in the woods, Fëanáro! The Prince Nolofinwë leads us, under the grace of the Valar!"

"_The grace of the Valar_!" I retorted harshly, as the crowds slowly fell silent, "Why, people of the Noldor, why should we serve the jealous Powers any longer? Indeed, they cannot keep us nor even their own realm safe from the whispers of the Enemy. And though he is now their foe, are they not of one kin, Moringotto and the Valar? Do you not remember that Manwë and Moringotto are held as equals, even _brothers_, in the eyes of Ilúvatar?"

"Blasphemy!" another fervent voice hissed, and the Noldor were again thrust into a tumultuous clamor.

"Blasphemy only by what the Valar have taught you," I replied coolly, growing used to the resistance I was facing, and pleased to see many in the crowd nodded their heads in assent to my words as the talk subsided, "Vengeance calls me to avenge the death of my father and your King, but even were it otherwise I would not dwell much longer in the same land with the kin of my father's slayer and the thief of my treasure.

"Yet I am not the only valiant one in this valiant people. I know the strength of the Noldor. If we come together as one people, we will be invincible and mighty indeed. And have you not all lost your King? What else have you lost, cooped here in this narrow land between the mountains and the sea?"

My eyes roved the multitude again, looking for earnest, believing faces, and saw many where there had been hardly any only fleeting moments before. Among the people I could see Aikanáro and his brothers, standing with the sons of Nolofinwë. Most of them looked just as eager for my speech as any other. Even Findekáno, Nolofinwë's firstborn, appeared swayed by my words. Pride in my skills of speech filled me, but I did not let myself falter for satisfaction.

"Here once was light," I told the mass of Noldor, my voice raising with every word, "Light that the Valar begrudged to Middle-earth, but now dark levels all. Shall we mourn here deedless forever, a shadow-folk, mist-haunting, dropping vain tears in the thankless Sea? Or shall we return to our home of old?

"In Cuiviénen sweet ran the waters under unclouded stars, and wide lands lay about, where a free people might walk. There some of our people lie still, awaiting us who in our folly blindly forsook them for the lies of the West. Come away! Let the cowards keep this city!"

The assembly roared in response, some in dismay, but most in agreement. I had infected them with my wrath, and now they would not escape it. I paused to draw breath, and felt a new idea come to me.

"Let it be known now that the Valar lied to us, all these long years, and not the smallest of their lies is the concealment of the truth of the people called the Atani," I said, feeling a flare of hope that the words of Moringotto might be turned against both him and the Valar alike, "These frail people live in the lands across the Sea that we once called ours. They are not like us; their spirits are weak. Death runs rampant among them like a plague. They live brief lives, a short sputter of life in compared to our own, a life fraught with grief and sickness and, in the end for them all, death. And yet the Valar have entrusted to them great kingdoms, the like of which _we_ have never seen or ruled! Why should we be content with mere villages and sparse lands when the Secondborn rule realms that encompass great expanses of free forests, streams, and mighty mountains?"

The shock in the crowd was tangible. Many had never heard of the Atani, and this was a blow they had not expected. I smiled dourly, knowing I had them enthralled.

"Now we know the reason of our transportation here, as though we were cargoes of fair slaves.

We at last know to what end we are guarded here, robbed of our heritage in the world, ruling not the wide lands, lest perchance we yield them not to an unborn race. The lands of Middle-earth are given instead to this sad folk, beset with swift mortality, a race of burrowers in the dark. In compare to us, these Atani are clumsy of hand, untuned to song or music. They will dully labor at the soil with their rude tools until the ends of time. To these mortal primitives would Manwë give the world and all the wonders of its land, all its secret substances, all that should be our rightful inheritance.

"While their beloved mortals build crude halls and homes on the undervalued earth, we are kept here with talk of the dangers of the world beyond and idle dreams! All these rumors of death and danger are merely a mask of words; a trick to deceive us! Hear me, children of the Noldor--be no longer the slaves of these Gods, however softly we are held. On this night I bid you to go forth from Valinor, for now the hour has come and the world awaits."

The silence of my audience begged me for more. I took a deep breath, preparing myself for the end of my speech.

"Fair shall the end be, though long and hard shall be the road before us! Say farewell to bondage! But farewell also to ease! Say farewell to the weak! Say farewell to your homes and treasures, but fear not--more still shall we make. Journey light--but bring with you your swords! For we will go further than Oromë, endure longer than Tulkas. We will never turn back from our pursuit of Moringotto! We will follow him to the ends of the Earth! War shall he have and hatred undying!

"But when we have conquered and have regained the Silmarils, then we, and we alone, shall be lords of the unsullied Light, and masters of the bliss and beauty of Arda! No doom will daunt us! No other race shall oust us!"

I drew my sword and held it aloft over my head, reveling in the cheers of the crowd and the light of the fires, letting my hard-earned victory echo in my triumphant mind. But something in me told me that my work was not yet done. Suddenly aware of the incompletion, I looked over my shoulder to my sons, their faces turned to my gaze, their eyes earnest with love and obedience for me.

"Come," I urged them, "Stand beside me, for something is yet unfinished. As I am your father and King, obey me now, if never again."

Swiftly they came to my side, their profiles fierce and strong in the firelight. I looked at them only briefly, taking in their features with a father's unwavering pride.

Steadfast, perceptive Maitimo, his gray eyes obedient but intense; delicate, artistic Makalaurë, whose frailness belied his fierce will to protect his family; fierce Tyelkormo, strong in deeds of hand and temper; stubborn, proud Carnistir, quick to anger and wrath, indomitable in his beliefs; skilled Curufinwë, truly a son of his father, matching me in face, skill, and temper; and the sensitive twins, Ambarussa and Ambarto, never apart, resolute and trusting. I knew all seven of them would follow me now.

"Draw your swords," I commanded them, and they did so, their blades red and glimmering in the light of the torches. I spoke again, and the words came easily, even eagerly, to my lips, as my sons echoed each word.

"_Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean,_

_brood of Moringotto or bright Vala, _

_Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,_

_Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth,_

_neither law nor love, nor league of swords,_

_dread nor danger, not Doom itself,_

_shall defend him from Fëanáro, and Fëanáro's kin,_

_whoso hide or hoard, or in hand take,_

_finding keep or afar cast_

_a Silmaril. This swear we all:_

_death we will deal him ere Day's ending,_

_woe unto world's end! Our word hear you,_

_Eru Allfather! To the everlasting _

_Darkness doom us if our deed fail._

_On the holy mountain hear in witness_

_and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!_"

For a moment there was only a stunned, shocked silence, broken only by the hiss and crackle of flame. The mood of awe that had grown during my speech had faded into one of fear at the naming of Eru and the Darkness. Slowly, murmurs broke out in timid bursts among the Noldor, murmurs that gradually grew louder, into clamorous shouts and cries of dismay and unrest.

"Fool!" I heard Nolofinwë scream above the commotion, ascending the hill in swift, mighty strides. His usually calm face was now a mask of powerless fury. "You have damned us all, brother! Calling on Eru for a petty oath for a paltry cause! We will all pay dearly for this--in years of blood and death, war and weeping! You are maddened by hate and grief, Fëanáro, and blinded by your passion, but what you have said is unpardonable."

I lowered my sword, the blade hovering dangerously near where I had wounded Nolofinwë before. My sons kept their swords at hand too, watching for any signal from me to threaten their half-uncle.

This time, I knew, if I were to give into the fiery anger I felt at his interruption, and injure him, he would not survive it so easily. Nolofinwë must have known this, but he made no move to defend himself, his fists clenched white-knuckled but motionless at his sides, fiery eyes never leaving mine.

"A paltry cause?" I repeated bitterly, twisting his words with disdain, "_I_, not you, will decide which causes are trifling or significant now, Ingoldo." My use of his mother-name seemed to diminish the threat he posed to me, and ate away at his dignity.

Nolofinwë flinched, expression livid, but only muttered softly, "Listen to me. This is folly, Fëanáro. Sheer folly."

"Folly it may be," I replied, my wrath cooling as I remembered his oath before Manwë, "But it is a folly you shall follow, in spite of your misgivings. _Half-brother in blood, full brother in heart I will be_. Remember that? _You will lead, and I will ever follow._ That promise is one thing that is not annulled by the darkness, Ingoldo. I command you, your kin, and your people to follow me in the flight from Valinor. You will come."

"Do not let him do this to you, Father!" A dark-haired young man shouted from behind Nolofinwë. From the resemblance he shared to my brother, I guessed he was Turukáno, Nolofinwë's secondborn son. His face was outraged and filled with hate for me, and he struggled to get a hand to the sheathed sword at his belt, but Arafinwë held him, restraining his nephew's fury.

Nolofinwë's gray eyes grew dark with pain, but he did not turn to look at his son, and his face lost its baleful cast as he looked longer upon me. Then he bowed his head somberly, and knelt before me. "I will follow you, my King."

His voice was soft, beaten, a bare whisper, but somehow it carried through the crowds. Some cried out in anger and shock, but many of the Noldor roared in approval and triumph, brandishing their torches like swords of a victorious army. Turukáno went still, his eyes dismayed, and Arafinwë, confident in his nephew's peace, released the boy and joined his elder brother on the hillside.

"People of the Noldor," Arafinwë began, his voice appealing to the impassioned crowd. Despite their differences, all the Noldor fell silent to hear Arafinwë speak. "Why must we rush forth in the frenzy of our wrath?" He asked them, "Please, cool your fury and think well upon this departure from the lands which have ever been our home. Deeds may be done, terrible deeds, that will not be able to be undone, and in later times you may look back upon these days with either gratitude or remorse. Grieving or grateful, the memory of this night will not fade, and neither shall the events that come after."

"Hear my father's words!"

I looked about for the source of the voice, and finally saw Artaresto, now a grown man, standing tall among the masses. He turned about to address the Noldor, his torch held high like a doughty beacon. "Let us not be as mindless children in our haste to be gone! The words of Fëanáro addle your minds like wine. Only through long deliberation will you be able to find your way through the fogs of Fëanáro's speech, and safely home!"

"If the Noldor remain," Arafinwë added, "Let us not be accounted cowards, but heroes, heroes who have withstood the temptations of evil and the enticements of going forth into strange lands."

"I will stand by the words of my father," Artaresto declared, his somber determinedness seeming to move some of the crowd.

"And I," said another Elda, moving to stand at the side of Arafinwë. I caught a glimmer of violet eyes and smoky gold hair, and knew it was Findaráto. I was disappointed that I had not rallied him, another firstborn grandchild of Indis, to my cause as I had Findekáno; but I knew that there had always been little love lost between Arafinwë's heir and myself.

The Noldor's attention was then turned to the other children of Arafinwë, and I knew, if they saw an entire family come together against my words, they might falter as well. But my prayers were answered.

Aikanáro, Angaráto, and Artanis stood together, but apart from their father, their eyes filled with the fire from the torches. Aikanáro and Angaráto no doubt went for their long-standing friendship with my house, but I could not understand why Artanis would follow my cause. She did not meet my gaze-- indeed, she did not look upon any of the assembled people. Her heavenly blue eyes were distant and clouded, and her pale brow was furrowed in somber thought.

Aikanáro looked to me, and bowed his head slightly. Like Nolofinwë's promise, it was a small motion, but one the entire crowd saw and noticed.

I smiled in triumph. The Noldor were mine yet. "See," I informed the crowd, "There are some of wisdom among my house. We are not the Valar, sitting in lazy grief forever while the Enemy walks free! Let us be gone, and the sooner we go, the better our fate shall be!"

The people cheered again, their clamor breaking the stillness of the dark night. Arafinwë cried for peace and deliberation one last time, but was answered with shouts of disapproval that drowned out his words.

"Go now!" I ordered the throng over the roar of voices, "Gather your weapons and horses and meet here when you are ready! We go long and far, but the spirit of the Noldor shall endure!" The Noldor dispersed, calling out to each other in the dark, the fire of their torches dancing in the blackness.

"Father? What now?" One of my sons asked quietly. I turned about, and saw them all standing there patiently, waiting for my word. Grateful and proud, I smiled at them.

"Do not stand idle," I ordered, "Let us make ready. We have a long journey ahead."

Author's Note:

The chapters that needed fixing have been fixed…a big thank you to those astute readers who printed it out.

Love,

Blodeuedd


	37. Chapter ThirtySeven: Nerdanel

_Chapter Thirty-seven: Nerdanel_

Within two hours, the Noldor were assembled to march. Moringotto's rumors must have rooted themselves deep in the hearts of the people, for more men bore weapons and mail, and with more experience, than I expected.

Nolofinwë, Arafinwë, and their kin had finally for the most part surrendered themselves to the fate I had commanded. They too stood with those ready to leave. Arafinwë, standing with Artaresto and Findaráto, was staring at the earth defeatedly, his expression reluctant. Artaresto and Findaráto did not look at their father, but stared in awed amazement at the swords they had been given, regarding the cold blades with the same mixture of wonder and fear I had seen in most of my sons when I had presented them with the weapons.

Nolofinwë stood nearby, speaking quietly to his family. His wife Anairë was shaking her head at each word, wringing her hands in despair, looking into the faces of each of her four children with tear-filled eyes. Unlike his mother, Findekáno looked eager to leave, and his hand strayed often to his sword, but Turukáno glared balefully at any who disturbed him from his sullen thoughts, save at his wife and young daughter, who stood nearby. Arakáno leaned against a wall pensively, his arms folded, eyes protectively straying between his father and his younger sister, Írissë, who stood nearby, looking as though she wished she too had a sword sheathed at her white belt.

It was not unusual for Nolofinwë's youngest child to wish such things, if what Tyelkormo and Curufinwë said was true. They had joined the maid in many hunts with Oromë in the woods, and they claimed Írissë was just as able a hunter and tracker as any man they knew.

"King Fëanáro?" Someone queried, and I looked up from Nolofinwë's family sharply. It was a man from Formenos, his expression incomprehensible in the half-light of the torches.

"There is--someone here to see you, milord," he told me, bowing his head, "I told her to wait at the foot of the hill."

"Thank you," I said gratefully, making my way down the slopes of the Mindon's hill, "I will go there at once. Make sure the Noldor are ready to leave." The man nodded briskly, and disappeared in the fogs.

In the mist, the path down the hill was precarious, and I took some time getting to the foot, wondering whom it was who had asked to see me. Perhaps the Noldor were growing uneasy, and shaking off the spell of words I had cast over them. I could little afford that now, I realized with a bit of annoyance. If the Noldor thought too carefully and too close upon what they were doing, they might turn against me and return to their fetters at the feet of the Valar. I would have to thwart this detractor as soon as possible, before word spread and my people lapsed back into the fortifications of enslavement which had sheltered them for too long.

I at last came to the base of the hill, a thousand words of soothing and coaxing rising easily to my tongue. A rider, cloaked and hooded, sat a dapple-gray horse in the fog. Instead of aiding me in recognizing the stranger, the dimming firelight only cast deeper shadows in the cowl hiding the rider's face. When I came, the stranger did not acknowledge my status as King, let alone nobleman, with any reverence.

"Who are you?" I asked, chagrined at the rider's insolence.

The stranger laughed, a strange, muffled sound in the fog. "You of all people should recognize me, Fëanáro Curufinwë."

I went rigid and still, recognizing the mocking yet gentle voice that came from the depths of the rider's hood, and wishing desperately I had not been able to recognize it.

"Oh Powers, no. Nerdanel," I murmured, heart thudding painfully in my throat. For a moment, I felt weak and raw once more in the biting cold of the night.

Nerdanel pushed back her hood, her coppery locks curling in wisps about her pale, beautiful face. "Fëanáro," she acknowledged me, all mockery gone from her voice, "It has been a long time."

My heart, which had been thrown to the ground before her feet only moments before, hardened as memories of the years long past returned to me. "Do not feign sorrow, Nerdanel. You do not regret leaving me," I snapped, biting back the tender words of welcome that the part of me that still loved her longed to give.

"I do not regret it, that is true, and I have told you why long ago," Nerdanel conceded, "But that does not mean I do not feel sorrow."

"Where have you been living all these years? I--" I shut my mouth the instant the words, fraught with concern, left my mouth. How could I show sympathy to _her_? I was letting my heart rule my decisions, not my mind.

A loving but distant smile curled the corners of her mouth. She saw my inner frustration just as easily as I myself did. Perhaps we were not so far sundered as we thought.

Nerdanel replied gently, "I stayed for a time with my parents, living as I had before you came into my life. A fortnight before the festival of the Valar, I left the Pelóri Mountains for Tirion, to try to reconcile things that were lost long ago. I stayed in the house of Finwë and Indis, but when I came, only your stepmother was there to welcome me. She told me your father had left to live with you in--Formenos, the city you had built."

"You stayed with Indis?" I hissed furiously, feeling sullen and betrayed.

"You forget, Fëanáro," Nerdanel coolly responded, "That you no longer govern my life as you once did. I will stay where I please. Indis was happy enough to welcome me."

"You draw me away from your purpose," I growled, irritated, trying to set my jealousy aside and failing miserably, "What do you want?"

"The Noldor who passed by Indis' house told me you had rallied them to leave Valinor. Are you taking our sons with you?" She dismounted, and took a few tentative steps toward me, like a doe emerging from a thicket, still uncertain of her surroundings.

"All of them wish to come," I replied shortly, "They had no hesitation to agree to accompany me."

There was a pause. Nerdanel's face fell, and her nonchalant manner left her. "Please, Fëanáro," she implored suddenly, voice grieved with a poignant loss that had not even come, "Please, let me have Ambarussa. I love them so much. You cannot take the twins away from me."

"I can," I snapped coldly, looking away, trying not to see her pleading gaze.

"Just one of them then," Nerdanel bargained, desperate and anguished by my refusal, "Please. Just little Ambarussa. He is so young, he is not ready for such a journey--"

"Both the twins seemed eager enough, last I saw them," I responded, turning back to look at her with a gaze fierce enough to make her hesitate. "The earnestness of their youthful spirits will drive them both to the Eastern shore. And as for you, why do_ you_ insist so staunchly on remaining here?" I asked her in displeasure, "To the East lies fallow land waiting for the Noldor's rule. It may be far from Valinor indeed, but Arda's beauty is not confined to the West. In Middle-earth, all the Eldar would dwell free of the Valar's meddling gaze and prying hands. Our people would be as untroubled and blithe as we once were, as we were born to be. We would be lords of the earth and air, and the lands would flourish beneath our hands. Our children will live free of strife and evil, and raise fair kingdoms of their own. There would be no war, no hardship, and our people shall return to as we were of old. Will you deny yourself the chance to see the old homeland of your people, Nerdanel?"

She wavered when I said her name in that cajoling way, I could see it in her stunned eyes as she shocked even herself in her treachery against her own will. She remembered, as I did. She felt the same emptiness where our souls had once been bound by marriage, the same longings for my company and comfort that I felt for her. I was grimly triumphant, even as I felt that selfsame tugging bleakness.

"Come with us," I urged her again, "Our house will find its dignity and pride as it had long ago in this new life. We will reconcile old bitternesses, and make our lives anew." Nerdanel knew I did not speak only of the grudge between Nolofinwë's house and my own, but the rift that also sundered us.

I grew more and more confident as I spoke. I had woven my compelling mesh of words about the Noldor; could I not persuade my own wife? "Nerdanel, will you not see that starlit land? Do you not covet that freedom, as is the wont of all who have never beheld the Eastern lands? Would you have me raise our sons alone, have only me see them in the prime of their adulthood? What will they think, knowing their mother chose to remain an ocean away from them? Come with us, and you shall not grieve." There was no more I could say, lest the spell I had cast be broken.

Nerdanel's features had grown slack with pensive longing, and her eyes saw past me into the land I spoke of. She saw the future I had implied, and wavered for moment at the beck of that beseeching hope. But then her gaze brimmed with unshed tears, and she clutched at her dress with absent but defiant hands. She no longer wore the ring I had exchanged with her at the wedding, I noticed. Slowly but confidently, she shook her head.

"I will not go," Nerdanel told me softly, "Perhaps once I would have, Fëanáro, and even now I feel inclined to the offer. Your skill for choosing your words has not failed over the years." Her smile was as bitter as the guttering flame of a candle, and then it faded entirely in the cold gusts of indifference. "But if you will go today, you will go alone."

Resentful of her refusal, I did not bother to consider my next words. "Were you a true wife," I snapped harshly, "As you had been until cozened by the Valar, you would keep all of your sons, for you would come with us. If you desert me, Nerdanel--" Despite myself, the beginnings of a sob rose in my throat at the words, but I fought it down as best I could. "If you desert me, you desert all of our children as well. For they are determined to go with their father."

Nerdanel bowed her head, her frail shoulders shaking, and when she raised her face again, it was streaked with tears. "You would not, Fëanáro. Even you are not so cruel to keep children from their mother."

I said nothing, watching her weep with bitter, dispassionate eyes.

"No!" Nerdanel suddenly cried, for seemingly no reason but to scream, her white hands clenched into fists as the raw cry of grief and bereft longing rose in her throat. She ran to me, eyes wildly seeking my own, her face a mask of anger and grief.

"You will not keep all of them, Fëanáro! _All but one of them will die on the Eastern shores! _Aulë told me! Oh, Powers, all of them, save one! I did not want to tell you, but you leave me no choice! Our children, Fëanáro! My dear, dear sons! Which one will live, eternally burdened by the grief that all of his brothers are dead? How can you do this to them?_ How can you do this to yourself?_"

I was inwardly shaken by her words. All but one of our sons--_my_ sons, I corrected myself coldly--would die in Middle-earth? I thought of all of their proud, handsome faces as I had seen them while we swore our oath to find the Silmarils, and Curufinwë came especially to mind. _Could_ I lead my sons to an alien land, knowing that six of their number would suffer the same fate as their grandfather--plucked from immortality like unripe fruits by the careless hand of fate?

Just as quickly as I felt that dismayed realization, I chastised myself for falling prey to the portent.

"The Valar lie to us with every breath they take," I retorted, glaring down at her. Ironically, I noticed how close we were, how her hands clasped my shoulders, how our gaze met as firmly and steadily as it had that faraway night when I had asked her to marry me. Now we stood thus for an entirely different reason, as we severed the last bonds that held us to each other.

"Do you treasure this warning above others because it will keep your beloved children idly bound to this land forever? They swore to follow me, Nerdanel, and asked Ilúvatar himself to hear their oath. None of my _true _kin, nor that of my sons, will remain in this accursed realm after tonight."

She flinched at my unspoken accusation, hands falling limply to her sides, seemingly beaten. But her eyes remained mulishly stolid. "I will not follow you." Her words were unsteady, stained by weeping, but had a staunch note of finality to them.

"Then take your evil omens to the Valar, woman," I snarled furiously, pushing her roughly away from me and turning away. I could not trust myself to spare so much as a glance back to where she stood, lest I gave into the wishes of my heart. "They at least will delight in your words of death and despair. I defy them."

With that, I turned on my heel and stalked back up the hill, without even a farewell. Later, I would wish I could have reconciled with my estranged wife, before the end. Now, though, my spirit was as hard as cooled steel, and every footstep placed one more brick upon the wall that sundered me from Nerdanel. Still, the sound of Nerdanel's shuddering sobs followed me long after I had left her; even after the daughter of Mahtan herself had faded long into the distance.


	38. Chapter ThirtyEight: The Teleri

_Chapter Thirty-eight: The Teleri_

The darkness deepened as I returned to the Mindon. I was given little time to brood over Nerdanel's words before Carnistir found me.

"Where were you?" he demanded to know in a slightly sulky tone of voice.

"It is of no concern to you." That was partly truth. Since her departure, it had grown more and more evident that Carnistir placed his mother just below the kindred of Nolofinwë and Moringotto on his long list of those deserving his hate.

"The people are in dissent," Carnistir lowered his voice, and looked about furtively before continuing. "Some of them--well, most of them, I suppose--want Nolofinwë to lead us from Valinor. They will not accept your leadership, Father."

"We shall make them." I was annoyed to the point of madness at his news. Carnistir's constant ill mood seemed to be catching me in its dark grip as well.

"How, Father?"

"Watch. I shall divide the Noldor into two hosts, with those who follow me in the van with us at their head, and those who follow Nolofinwë behind. I will appoint Indis' sons as leaders of the second host to leave. Those accursed malcontents will think themselves free of my yoke, and follow Nolofinwë freely. Spread the word, Morifinwë." Carnistir's face split into a rare, wolfish grin as I spoke, and then he darted off like a hound trailing a scent, zealously eager to do as I had ordered. I watched him go, smiling ruefully to myself.

Though he was older now, Carnistir had always been a hunter of adventure in his youth. He would--or attempt to--perform daunting tasks his elder brothers would command him to do only in jest, such as climbing onto the roof of our old home in Tirion or drinking a full goblet of_ miruvórë_ in one swallow at some festival. Both Nerdanel and I had spent many long hours sincerely debating the probability of our impetuous fourth son's living to reach his fiftieth year and come of age. Did Carnistir think of this great undertaking as only another ominous challenge, another opportunity to win some great game and prove his worth to his house?

Despite having known my son for all his precarious, chancy days, I could only wonder about Carnistir's motives as I ascended the hill of Túna to its peak, preparing to leave the lands of Aman forever.

I am proud to say that at least, of all my plans in our last hours spent in Aman, my plan of dividing the Noldor by their loyalties worked. Within moments, Carnistir's tidings from me spread through the people, and they were already dividing into two immense factions as I came near. Mollified by the apparent return of some vestige of Nolofinwë's leadership, his followers said nothing to me as I passed. Only uneasy shifting and low-throated coughs heralded my presence in their midst. Even Nolofinwë had naught to say; he provided me with only a curt worried nod before he turned to address his host, if that is what that foolish band could be called.

As I approached the vanguard of my men, a small group of about twenty women nervously shuffled to me. A dark-haired woman with the look of fine breeding in her proud eyes and elegantly-boned face bowed her head docilely and asked, "Please, King Fëanáro, what of those infants too young to walk or look after themselves?"

"May we bear them with us?" Another woman asked, her face paled with a mother's worry.

I realized as I looked at them each one of them cradled a swaddled infant to their heart, and I was painfully reminded of how Nerdanel had used to carry the youngest of our children, whichever he was at the time, about the house in the same way as she went about her chores. But I also knew that such helpless, frail children would do nothing but hamper our journey.

I sighed and responded quietly, "No. Leave them in the care of those who remain to keep this city."

Some of the mothers gave in quickly, and moved off with tear-filled eyes to do as I told, but others remained, glaring at me with baleful eyes.

"You have seven of your own!" The dark-haired woman spat furiously, eyes lucidly intense with the light that comes only from a formidable temper and years of pampered contentment. "Will you deny us the joy of our own children?"

"It is only out of necessity, lady," I told her as gently as I could, attempting to make my voice soothing, "If one of my own children was too young to bear themselves in this flight, I would insist upon him staying here as well."

"My husband is right!" A slender woman with wheat-colored hair snapped, clutching her mewling babe close. "You are nothing but a heartless malcontent! Only fools would think you a King!"

I had half a mind to stalk off then and there, but the kingly duties I had been taught to perform so long ago remained in my head. "I am not seeking to keep you from your children, only trying to keep them safe. What child can survive the perils that lie ahead? If you wish to brave the risk of losing your infant, I will not stop you, but you will tend to the needs of the child alone. The Noldor will not aid you. I will not help those who seek to bring harm to their kin."

There. That was a proper argument, and apparently the women thought so too, for they fell silent forthwith. I continued on my way to the head of my host, where my sons waited.

Unlike many of the Noldor, they stood tall and doubtless of the rightness of their decisions, their hands resting easily on the hilts of their swords. Their handsome armor gleamed like liquid fire in the light of the torches, and their well-wrought helmets cast their faces into formidable shadow.

"Come," I ordered them, "The Noldor march to freedom on this night."

As we made for the gates of Tirion, I could hear some of the Noldor weeping as they left their city and friends behind. At first, the sound was quiet, but as we issued from the gate, its volume grew. Both Makalaurë and Curufinwë disappeared briefly to bid their wives farewell, for neither Aranel nor Márlindë wished to make the journey. They returned with husky voices and reddened eyes, though they staunchly refused to openly grieve, and ignored any who attempted to comfort them.

Unlike his father, Tyelpinquar let his tears for his mother run down his cheeks openly as he led his horse along, looking back often to the city which had been his home for so long. I kept catching Curufinwë looking long and hard at his son on several occasions, as though, if he stared long enough at the boy, it would bring Aranel back.

But we were given little time to settle ourselves into the rhythms of the journey and forget our sorrows. As the first ranks of the vanguard emerged from the gateway of Tirion, I saw a lone rider on the horizon and told my sons to spread the command to halt.

The sight of banner of the Valar, gold and white, fluttering limply in the night, was enough to make my heart stall with momentary fear. But fear soon gave way to arrogant defiance, and I walked a few steps toward the approaching rider, standing sundered from my people.

The rider pulled to a halt, and I caught a glimpse of immortal eyes in the man's pale, sculpted face as he dismounted to face me. If we had met in the light of the Trees, or even within the walls of Valmar at least, I suppose I would have felt more respectful. However, in this ambiguous darkness the Powers' courier looked desperately extravagant, gaudily clothed, with only a garish, wilted banner as a fading sigil of overturned power to ward off the encroaching dark.

"Well?" I demanded impatiently, folding my arms and regarding him with as petulant a stare I could muster.

The Maia's gaze slid blindly over me, as if refusing to see the threat posed to his immortal masters, as if I were a cause that was not worth saving. Instead, he turned instead to speak to the Noldor in a rich but somewhat brassy voice.

"From Manwë Súlimo upon the hill of the Ezellohar I bear word to the Noldor--against the folly of Fëanáro do the Valar set my counsel only. Go not forth! For the hour is evil, and your road leads to sorrow that you do not foresee. No aid will the Valar lend you in this quest; but neither will they halt you. For you know that, as you came here freely, freely you may depart."

Finally, he turned his cold attention to me, and I saw the gleam of disdainful contempt flare in his eyes before he said, "But you, Fëanáro Finwë's son--by your oath are exiled. You will unlearn the lies of Melkor in bitterness. You claimed he was a Vala, but if this is so, you have sworn your dark oath in vain. For you cannot overthrow any of the Valar now or ever within the halls of Eä, even if Eru whom you named had made you three times greater than you are now."

I was not stricken by his words; indeed I had expected such scorning words from Valmar. Fools, trying to frighten me into returning to the dark, stagnant lands they played at ruling! Their words fell on deaf ears indeed.

So I laughed aloud, disregarding the courier as he had disregarded me, and turned instead to argue to the Noldor. "So! Thus it is!" I declared, gesturing at the messenger to validate my argument. "Will the valiant people of the Noldor send forth the heir of their King alone into banishment, with his sons only? Will you return to your bondage? But if any will come with me, I say to them--is sorrow foreboded to you? Even these Undying Lands are not free of sorrow; indeed we have come from bliss to woe in this realm. The other way we will now attempt--we shall come from sorrow to find joy, or freedom at least."

The Noldor roared their approval, mocking the Valar's messenger mercilessly until I spoke to him and all other noise was silenced.

"Say this to Manwë Súlimo, the vaunted _High King_ of Arda--" My derision twisted the regal title into a crude epithet, and the courier balked at my ridicule, but then my voice darkened with anger that surpassed mere condescension. "Tell him that if Fëanáro cannot overthrow Moringotto, at least he delays not to assail him, and sits not idle in grief upon his throne. And it may be that Eru has set in me a fire greater than you or your craven masters know. Such hurt at the least will I do to the Foe of the Valar that even the mighty ones in the Ring of Doom should wonder to hear it. Yes, in the end they too shall follow me. Farewell!"

A long silence followed, broken only by the guttering of the torches in the wind and the rustle of the leaves upon the faraway trees of Tirion. I took a deep breath, trying to relax, but my entire body seemed drawn taut with fury. When finally I shook myself free of the passionate grip of my anger, I saw that the messenger's eyes were wide and lucid with stunned humility. Suddenly, he bowed to me, full from the waist, as the lowest of commoners would bow to the Valar themselves, and I realized how frighteningly potent my vehement words must have been. When the courier rose from his reverence, he looked a little dazed, as if he had expected me to have drawn my sword and swept his head from his shoulders while he was sunken in his obeisance.

"I--I will bear your message to the Valar, Fëanáro," he mumbled, dark eyes not meeting mine, mounting up on his horse, which tossed its head anxiously, sensing its rider's unease. Without another glance at me, the Maia spurred his horse and was off across the plain, fading swiftly to a shadow on the black, starry horizon.

For a moment only did I pause to watch him go, then nodded curtly to the forefront of my host and started off at a brisk pace towards the north, not waiting for Nolofinwë's rearguard to follow.

As we walked, clouds gathered over the stars, and the land was enveloped in an even greater darkness. The Noldor grew uneasy, and our pace grew slower than I would have wished. Anxious conversations and forced laughter, quickly hushed, began winding amid the hosts.

"Where do we go, Father?" Maitimo asked, succumbing to the urge to speak at last.

"We make for the Northern pass to Middle-earth," I replied, "Moringotto must have taken that treacherous way to the Eastern shores, and so shall we."

"What about the Helcaraxë?" Ambarto wanted to know, "Nobody has ever crossed that icy strait to Middle-earth and lived to speak of it."

"I know," I grimaced, and then felt a strange flutter of hope. "But our numbers are great, and our resolve is mighty. Perhaps we shall cross it with greater ease then you think, Pitya."

Ambarto restlessly returned my smile, then looked away, his pale brow furrowed in thought as he felt the hilt of his sword. Ambarussa craned his neck to whisper in his twin's ear, and Ambarto nodded and murmured something in response, voice low and uneasy.

Trying to ignore the prickly sense of disquiet that seemed to be running rampant amongst the other Noldor, I turned to speak to Maitimo again. "Why did you ask that?" I asked. A little irritated, I pressed further to add, "Do you lack faith in our journey or our cause, Nelya?"

Maitimo quailed from my brusque questions, muttering, "No, of course not. It is only that--" He took a deep breath and suggested, "Perhaps we should go to the Teleri and ask them for the use of their ships. That way, our passage would be much swifter."

I raised my brows in startled realization--I_ had not _thought of that! "The Teleri--our allies--" I muttered to myself, trying to compose a plan, "Their ships--Alqualondë."

_Alqualondë._ I glanced at Maitimo, and saw my idea reflected earnestly in his eyes. For the first time since my exile, I smiled with the same vigor and inspiration I had had in those innocent days in blissful Tirion. Maitimo looked elated to be the source of such encouragement.

"Spread the word," I ordered, clapping him congenially on the shoulder, "We fare now to Alqualondë!"

With renewed ardor, we marched without respite until the bay of Alqualondë loomed upon the horizon.

In the night, the stars danced alone upon the bright surface of the ocean, accompanied only by the steady heartbeat of the waves rising and receding alone the white dunes. Alqualondë's glassy minarets spiraled up into the dark skies, its bridges and towers rising over darkened, opaque waters.

Now suddenly the goal of my design, the ships of the Teleri held my attention for many moments. The swanlike vessels glided serenely over the blue deeps and the reflections of the stars. Their stainless white sails billowed proudly even the unusually vapid breeze, no doubt empowered to turn even the slightest wind to a suitable gust because the magical weaves the Teleri had employed in their making. Surely such fabled crafts could bear us swift and true on our exodus from this darkened land.

As I tried to turn my focus back upon the task at hand, I noticed that the only difference from my past visits to the Teleri's port was that on this night there was no beautiful singing to caress a weary traveler's heart or linger upon the ocean's breeze. Instead, the air was empty and chillingly silent, suffused with a grief running deeper than the uttermost profundity of the Sea.

Trying not to let the portentous, unnatural silence further unravel my already fraying nerves, I looked among the Noldor in the vanguard, trying to find Aikanáro's face. At last I saw him, his gaze turned upon the Sea, his lips moving silently in a quiet, mysterious litany. He was an unusually calm boulder amid the uncertain sea of Noldor about him. This was his home, and he was no stranger to this realm that rose out of the Sea.

"Aikanáro!" I called to him over the perturbed mutters of the others.

The young man stiffened and looked to me, his handsome, mirthful features knotted in confusion.

"Come here," I told him, waving him over as I spoke. He made his way through the ranks to my side, following my gaze down to the Telerin city below.

"Yes, King Fëanáro?" The son of Arafinwë queried.

"You know this city well?" I asked him, tearing my eager eyes from the ships and looking at his face.

"As well as I know my names," he replied instantaneously, grinning broadly, "Ask me where the smallest hovel can be found--not that there _are_ any hovels in this blessed place--and I will show it to you."

"Very good," I acknowledged with barely contained delight. He would show me where I needed to go. "Could you tell me where the docks are, and what ways I might take to find them?"

Aikanáro nodded, obviously still a little bewildered, but a delicate trust shone in his dark eyes. "Of course--but the docks?"

"The docks," I confirmed, "We have need of your kindred's ships."

The young man paused momentarily, seemingly wavering between his worries and his devotions, then nodded to himself and pointed out a gated portal. "Enter the city by that gate at the foot of this hill. . ."

With Aikanáro beside me, and my sons leading the host at my back, I entered the gates of Alqualondë for the final time. While this arrival in the Teleri's haven was my last, it was also probably the one where I was most unwelcome.

The wavering red light of the torches that the Teleri had lit and placed in sconces on the buildings mingled with the blue starlight and colored the world in an eerie, uncertain shade of violet. That unearthly color still remained in my mind long after, and the way the vacant hue seemed to detach the realm from the earthbound lands, and cast us all into a vague, dreamlike unreality, haunts me still. I was never able to look at the color again without a remembering feeling of detachment and hollowness.

Even those among the Teleri who would have greeted Aikanáro, their lord's grandson, upon his return to his home, stayed away from the naked resolve in the eyes of the Noldor. They regarded us with a stern, condemning gaze, and then returned to patiently mending their gossamer nets and hauling the day's catch of wriggling silver fish homeward. It was almost insolent, how little attention they paid us.

"Where can I stop so I might address them?" I asked Aikanáro under my breath, glancing about surreptitiously at the unsympathetic eyes about us.

"Here is good enough," the son of Arafinwë replied in an equally low tone, "All the fishers and dockhands pass by here on their way home." He paused, and I could feel the uncertainty in his silence. "King Fëanáro, do you think it wise to stop here? Would you not rather speak to Olwë first?"

I shook my head, then lifted my head to return the gaze of the Teleri with undaunted boldness. That alone was enough to make some of them halt.

Then I spoke once more, in the commanding, fervent voice I had used before the Noldor, but to less effect. At first some of them hesitated, spellbound by my words, setting down their burdens to lean against a wall and dream the dreams I spun in their mind. But more often then not their briefly pensive eyes would fall again upon their work, and they would straighten and move on their way.

Despairing, I forgot my florid insinuations and said, "Good people of the Teleri, will you not at least lend us, your long-standing friends and allies, the use of your fair ships, or aid us in the building of some of our own? You could come with us, and be freed of the trammels and traps the Valar have laid for you."

"Fëanáro, what have the Valar ever done to hurt you so? You speak of them with such hate," an arbitrary voice, delicately accented from the fragile Telerin language, called out from the crowds.

"That foul beast of darkness who calls himself Melkor, and whom my house has named Moringotto, is of their blood," I replied, biting off each word with a gnash of my teeth. I hated the Valar more than anything for being pacifistic, for their peace-loving ways--they would let my father's killer run free and do more evil in the world. Somewhere, if the Valar remained idle, other sons would grieve for their slain fathers as I had, and feel the same emptiness in their deserted hearts. I pitied all of them.

"We have had no dealings with Melkor," the voice replied coolly, "But we love the Lord Ulmo and fair Uinen for the Sea they have given us, and know that their wrath will be great. Let the Valar fight your war for you, angry son of Finwë."

"Fight?" I mocked harshly, "The Valar do not fight. The famed Guardians of Arda have let grief overcome them, and make no move to stop Moringotto's plunder of the earth and its peoples. Tell that to your lord Olwë, who would sit as idle as they!"

"There is no need to tell me," the detached voice responded, and suddenly Olwë strode forth from the throng departing from the docks, his silver hair gleaming like filaments of Telperion's long-gone light. Despite myself, my jaw dropped and I realized how brash I must have sounded. Olwë saw my shock and nodded grimly as if affirming something to himself, then moved to stand squarely between the host of Noldor and the docks.

Still humiliated and furious because I had been thus embarrassed, I snapped hotly, "You renounce the friendship between the Noldor and Teleri, even in the hour of our need! Yet you were glad indeed to receive the Noldor's aid when you first came to Aman's shores, as fainthearted, empty-handed loiterers! In bare huts on the beaches would your people be dwelling still, if the Noldor had not carved out your haven and toiled upon your walls."

Olwë regarded me with a composed gaze, confident that the trust and support of his people would keep him standing on two feet. "We renounce no friendship. But it is our part as your friends to rebuke your folly. And when the Noldor welcomed us and gave us aid, otherwise then you spoke--in the land of Aman we were to dwell for ever, as brothers whose houses stand side by side. But as for our white ships--those you did not give us. We learned the crafting of ships not from the Noldor, but from the Lords of the Sea. The white timbers we wrought with our own hands, and our wives and daughters wove the white sails. Therefore we will neither give them nor sell them, not for any league or friendship.

"For I say to you, Fëanáro son of Finwë, these vessels are to us as are the gems of the Noldor. They are the work of our hearts, whose like we shall not make again."

Furious, I turned away and strode into the safety of my host, glaring out at everything. The Teleri were the coddled pets of the Valar, just like the Vanyar; there would be no salvation for them.

"What now?" Tyelkormo asked me anxiously, and I wheeled about in surprise. He had somehow found me in the sprawling mass of the Noldor.

"We wait," I growled, putting a clenched fist to my face in thought as I looked about the city, "I know not yet our course of action."

As the Teleri continued to go about their work with renewed senses of duty, and the last of the host I had at my command trailed into the city, I finally came up with a desperate, harsh idea. I straightened and returned to the head of the Noldor, glancing about to see that I had everyone following me, then proceeded to where Aikanáro had told me that the docks were.

Olwë was already there, waiting for us with men armed with the slender white bows of the Teleri. His fair, pale face grew lined with bleak disappointment when he saw us coming, but he lifted his chin in courageous defiance of our numbers.

"Fëanáro, have we not spoken of this before?" He chided, watching my host come to a halt as a tension settled in the narrow space between us. Despite the frightening circumstances, he spoke shrewdly, his words even and soft, with a trace of grieved disappointment, as though he spoke to disobedient children who were too wayward for even the wisest and most patient to correct. "You will not take our ships from us by force or by kind speech. Your attempts for escape from Aman are futile, and will do little to help your people. The Valar wish only for you to dwell in safety and eternity upon these shores."

"You speak of lies; lies that would chain us forever to the Lords of the West. It is time we awoke from such foolish dreams," I retorted, as my men muttered assent, "Only in the East will the Eldar be truly free of the bondage of the Valar, and become masters of their own wills."

"We were always free, son of Finwë. And we always shall be, so long as we trust each other and the Valar above us. We are always free."

_Insolent, cowardly fool._ I did not attempt to free myself from the anger that clouded my eyes then. In a fit of rage, I drew my sword and leapt at Olwë. At first, I was too frightened to perform a mortal blow. Instead, not wasting time to think more, I delivered him a quick, vicious blow to the head with the pommel of my blade, knocking the man to the earth and stunning him momentarily.

I could have stopped then, but that strange, symbolic power which striking Olwë down gave me had sunk its talons far beneath the surface of my anger, piercing the inner core of my heart, and would not let me go. With a sudden realization of duty, I _knew_ I had to rid the earth of his like, before their Valar-loving deceptions enslaved us all once more. Mindless as a marauding beast, I pinned the bewildered lord of Alqualondë to the ground by placing my foot on his chest, ensuring that he would not be able to escape my blade. Heart throbbing painfully loud in my head, I raised my sword with the practiced motion of many years of preparation, readying myself for the final blow.

Slowly, Olwë stirred and came to his senses, his eyes opening and looking numbly up at me. His gaze was the color of tarnished silver, dark and filled with pain and sorrow. _I pity you_, his expression seemed to say.

Rage, strident and jarring, flared up in me, impelling me to act. I did not want pity, I wanted fear, respect, understanding. Emptying my mind of emotion and calling on all the swordsman's skill I had garnered over the long years, I drove my sword downward into the other man's heart, then pulled it back out in a killing motion as swift as lightning. He died instantly.

The air grew as still and stifling as a tomb. Panting for air, I stared dazedly down at Olwë's corpse. I could not blink, let alone look away--my gaze was fixed upon him with a mixture of horror and wonder. His fine gray and blue tunic was rent from the force of my thrust, and the proud swan emblem of Alqualondë that was embroidered on the clothing's chest was stained a livid crimson. It took me a moment to realize that the stains on the tunic and upon my sword were blood, more blood than I had ever seen in my life. More blood than I had ever wished to see in my life.

Suddenly, the silence was rent by a strange gagging sound, and I turned about just in time to see Makalaurë stagger to his knees and retch onto the street. His face was pale and ashamed by his frailty, but also blatantly, soundly sickened by the sight of another Elda's death. Tyelkormo helped his older brother to his feet, muttering consolations in a low voice, but his earnest aid did nothing to lessen Makalaurë's trembling hands or his wide, frenzied eyes, fixed immovably upon Olwë's soulless form.

The Noldor recovered from the shock of my kill first, and drew their swords, faces fearsome to behold in the starlight. Their silent support sustained me, keeping me from showing my weaknesses like Makalaurë.

Trying not to let my host see how dizzy and sick I was from Olwë's death at my hands, I shouted, "Man the ships!"

Shouting in wordless fury, the Noldor surged forward, cutting a bloody path to the docks. A great wail rose up from the Teleri, starting out as a cry of grief and ending as an answering roar of shocked anger. Their white-shafted arrows sang through the air, picking off some of the men but mostly repelling harmlessly off of our tough armor and mail.

I was caught up in the brutal current of the skirmish and followed after, shouting the name of my house and calling out orders as I did so. Now that I had learned it, the dance of combat was impossible to unlearn. Infuriated, I lashed out in constant offensive, my blade rising and falling, murdering more Teleri with each stroke. I was indiscriminately slaying any who would withstand me now. The chilling shock of Olwë's death wore off quickly against the swift-moving whetstone of battle, and I cared little for those I killed.

Though they were not nearly as tall or strong as we were, the strong love and pride the Teleri bore for their exquisite ships drove them into a frightening madness that stripped them of all care for life or limb. Because what few bows they had were slim and hardly lethal, designed to bring down unarmored, thoughtless animals, they mostly fought with only their brute strength and bare hands, frail though they were. Soon the Teleri realized these disadvantages and banded together, using their combined strength to cast several of the Noldor headlong into the Sea, from whence most did not resurface.

Within a small amount of time, they had succeeded in driving us back from the quays, and their numbers only grew as we retreated further into the city. Though the Noldor were fierce and well-armed, we were in alien territory and surrounded on all sides. Sometimes our forced withdrawal would halt as I rallied my sons to me, or a brave faction of our host found some new strength, but we were still steadily being led away from our goal. The fire of my fury slowed to a listless halt, and I was weary and sick to my very core.

As I felt even my boundless hope fail, I looked about in the chaos of battle for Maitimo, wanting to signal him to help me unite our host for one last marshalling of our forces. But when I found his face, I saw him looking to the gate of the city through which we had entered, his lips parted in breathless wonder.

"_Findekáno!_" He cried, with such fervent amazement that the Teleri drew back, wondering what strange enchantment he worked with this unknown war cry. However, the Noldor and I knew at once whom he spoke of, and followed his gaze to the portal.

The foremost of Nolofinwë's host was gathered there, led by Findekáno, who was girt in a shimmering hauberk of mail and proudly bearing a broad shield emblazoned with the unmistakable device of his house. He wore no helmet, hence Maitimo's swift recognition of his friend; the eldest son of Nolofinwë's familiar noble features shone like a beacon into the night, his dark, braided hair spilling like ink upon the doughty steel of his breastplate.

Seeing his friend and our predicament, he drew his sword with a furious ring of steel, barking an order to those who followed him. Without waiting for his host to comply, he leapt rashly into the fray, blade slashing and shining in the dark, calling out to Maitimo as he went.

At this sight, my men let out a cheer of triumph, roaring Findekáno's name in gratitude and admiration, and the Teleri lost what remained of their bravery. They fought with failing resolve afterward, knowing they may have had the advantage of numbers, but not of arms or courage, and we pressed back to the quays once more, and soon most of the Teleri's fair swan-ships were filled with my warriors.

The Teleri saw the occupation of their ships and cried out in grief to Uinen, who dwelled within the Sea. Initially, my men laughed at what seemed to be the last flares of Alqualondë's defiance, but then the very waves rose up against them, sending the vessels plunging and dipping wildly in the waters. While the Valar would not hold us from our departure, apparently Uinen, a Maia whose tresses made up the very waters of the world, would. The ships' anchors were torn loose, and many of the ships were driven against the wharf, as if they were in the heart of some violent, invisible storm. Many of our number were tossed over the sides of the bucking crafts and plunged into the turbulent Sea, lost in the boiling, tempestuous waves. Horrified by this sudden turn for the worse, the Noldor leapt for safety on the comparatively steady docks, quailing in horror at the fury of the Sea.

"Fools!" I shouted heatedly at them, dodging a stray Telerin arrow as I did so, "Draw the ships away from the haven! Brave Uinen's wrath, and you will live!"

Though the Noldor have never been mariners, somehow they managed to obey me, and soon a sizable fleet of ships waited in the bay, their sails billowed in a heartening wind. The Teleri fled into their homes, weeping for their lost kin and their ships, leaving the hosts of the Noldor to stand alone on the empty docks.

Findekáno, grinning broadly in staunch high spirits even though he was clearly exhausted from the battle, approached me. He briskly cleaned and sheathed his bloody sword, and then regarded me with a hopeful gaze. For him, this fight in the havens of Alqualondë must have seemed only a noble war for a noble cause, bringing him and his kindred one step closer to the glowing prospect of freedom I had planted in his mind. He still probably had no idea what had been going on when he had arrived; all he had seen was that his people and his dear friend were in danger, and had rushed to aid us. I wondered if later, when he found out what we had been fighting over, what his reaction would be. Nevertheless, it was well enough that he seemed to have enjoyed his skirmish with the Teleri; he would have much battle with the mighty Enemy later in his life, I realized with a sudden pang of foresight.

"Well, what now?" He asked me.

Author's Note:

Yay! Reader responses, at long last!

**Unsung Heroine**: Your computer's sudden revival must be fate! However, I shan't let it go to my head; the fact that my favorite candidate on _America's Next Top Model_ was eliminated this week is a clear portent that, if gods there be, they don't really like me. :-)

**Depprium**: Yeah, things only go downhill from here, as we all know. Unfortunate, but true.

I hope that the Teleri's brief appearance in the story is to the liking of **theycallmemary**, who wisely raised the question of 'How in the heck do the Teleri get bows? Fishing?' Well, it's plausible, right? Errrr.

**stearchica**, meanwhile, is cheering for Finarfin, the smart guy. Good choice. (nods approvingly) I'm stuck with Idiot here. (pokes Fëanor, who snarls wordlessly)

**Ellfine**: Wow, you've been with me from the start, haven't you? Many snaps and kudos for hanging in there! (hugs)

And finally, on a more somber note, my most recent review was from **ANon**, who disapproved of Nerdanel's departure from her family and my humanization of her relationship with Fëanor. I completely see where he or she is coming from with this, but I didn't do this without reason. I even agree with the opinion that the Eldar are not the sort of beings to be humanized in most cases.

But I think we all agree that Fëanor is _not_ 'most cases.' Of all the early Eldar, he is unparalleled in his quintessentially 'human' character, which rises from his early experience with death through the loss of Míriel. This brush with mortality was one that affected him forever and one that immediately sets him apart from the other Elves.

Like the rest of his life, his relationship with Nerdanel is one of inherently _human_ passion and ultimate ruin. When Nerdanel and he 'grow estranged,' it is not her saying (in **ANon**'s words) 'screw it,' but rather her realization that he is too different, too 'mortal' in his passions and rages, to ever live happily with the rest of his people--even her gentle counsel and tender guidance is not strong or fierce enough to keep him from his fate. It is the union of their _fëa_ (which **ANon** asserted they lacked) that tells her this.

I did copious amounts of research for this story, and I've read _Morgoth's Ring _from cover to cover. My copy of said volume is still fletched with the numerous sticky notes used to mark passages that were invaluable to this story. I realize the finality and beautifully spiritual attunement Elves accept upon marriage and recognize it, albeit indirectly, in _Fire._

However, I _also_ read _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_ in my research. In what is, in my opinion, the best chapter of _TPOME_, 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor,' it states that 'as Fëanor grew more and more fell and violent, and rebelled against the Valar, Nerdanel, after long endeavouring to change his mood became estranged… **_She retired to her father's house_** boldface italics mine.' So she did indeed leave him, and I am in no way departing from canon in suggesting that she did so.

While I am very much willing to accept constructive criticism, I believed I have argued my case effectively and will leave my story as is, both for the furtherance of plot as well as in the effort to remain canon. **Please, tell me if you think I am wrong! **

Love,

Blodeuedd


	39. Chapter ThirtyNine: The Warning

_Chapter Thirty-nine: The Warning_

The eldest son of Nolofinwë got his answer soon enough.

We continued on northward, our hosts divided between marching on land and sailing the Teleri's ships. However, I made sure that only loyal Formenos men manned the boats, for they were the only ones I trusted with such a duty. I was beginning to doubt Nolofinwë once more, remembering how Moringotto had said he had taken up the name of Finwë in earlier days and how he had sought to gainsay me in every endeavor, and did not trust anyone with the slightest faith in the son of Indis on the deck of a swan-ship.

We had just passed the northernmost foothills of the Pelóri, and entered the empty, barren realm of Araman, when a dark figure appeared before our hosts.

The silhouetted person stood on an outcropping of rocks, his face veiled in shadow but his eyes shining in the starlight. I commanded the Noldor to halt, and returned the figure's unflagging gaze with my own.

"What do you want of us?" I called to him, trying to ignore the quivering fear that this might be Moringotto waiting to entrap us.

"Only that you stand and lend me your ears, people of the Noldor," ordered the shadow in a sonorous, authoritative voice loud enough for all of the two hosts to hear. It was then we realized that this was no mere messenger of the Valar, but one of the Valar themselves--fools though they were, the Powers, when so inclined, had voices to make the highest mountains kneel in reverence. Silence fell like a curtain of black velvet, hushing us all as a mother would hush a band of unruly children.

"Hear me now as I speak the Prophecy of the North, and proclaim the Doom of the Noldor," the Vala rumbled, then let a pregnant pause fill the air before saying, "_Tears unnumbered you shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanáro the wrath of the Valar lies, from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be for ever._

"_You have spilt the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman. For blood you shall render blood, and beyond Aman you shall dwell in Death's shadow. For though Eru appointed to you to die not in Eä, and no sickness may assail you, yet slain you may be, and slain you shall be--by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall you abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom you have slain should entreat for you. And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that comes after. The Valar have spoken._"

The words, monotonously and deprecatingly spoken though they were, visibly shook the hosts to their core, and when I looked about me I saw loyalty waver, and courage fail. For a moment even I considered rethinking my decisions, but disdained that idea almost at once. For once, I did not speak with arrogance or anger. This time I answered the Valar's warning in slow and soft tones, each word evenly weighed down by my heavy deliberation.

"We have sworn, and not lightly. My sons and I will keep our oath. We are threatened with many evils, and treason not least. But one thing is not said in this prophecy--that we shall suffer from cowardice, from cravens or the fear of cravens. Therefore I say that we will go on, and this doom I add--the deeds that we shall do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda."

But even as I spoke, a steady, anxious murmur rose and grew from the backs of the hosts, and I knew that the sons of Indis had no doubt provoked the Noldor into misgivings. My fear was confirmed when Aikanáro came to me, having made his way through the long ranks to my side, his face worried and preoccupied.

"Father is forsaking the march, with any who will come with him," he informed me in a quiet, subdued voice, "A good part of Nolofinwë's host is following, but Nolofinwë and his children remain."

"Curse Arafinwë," I growled, "At least with his departure we will no longer suffer from the sowing of such uncertainties!"

I paused, gathering my thoughts and trying to carry them out of the destructive fires of wrath. "What of your siblings? Did they leave with him?" I paused, looking at Aikanáro with the beginnings of distrust rising in my heart. "Are_ you_ going with him?"

Aikanáro heaved a silently agonized sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, but shook his head slowly, his dark eyes quiet with pain. "No. I--I told Father I would remain. Even Findaráto and Artaresto remain--though it was probably their greater wish to follow our father--for they will not leave us three youngest to brave this journey alone." His features grew distant as he spoke the word _alone_, and he looked over his shoulder to the long path that would lead his father, and those who would follow his father, homeward.

I recognized in him the same stirring to do all that his father wished that I too had possessed while Finwë had been alive. If Aikanáro was given even a spare moment to consider his choices, I knew he too would be soon hastening down the southern path.

"Come," I ordered him, not wanting to lose the devotion of my most loyal follower in the grandchildren of Indis to mere homesickness. "We must press onward, while Moringotto's trail is still fresh. Tell those who remain faithful to me to keep marching."

Aikanáro's gaze grew weary and heavy with fate. The weight of these times was taking a toll on even the youngest children of the Noldor. "Even with the Valar's eyes turned from our cause?"

A cold wind pulled at my hair, chilling my face, trying to turn my face to the road leading back to Tirion, but I ignored it stubbornly. " Yes, Aikanáro. Even so."


	40. Chapter Forty: The Grinding Ice

_Chapter Forty: The Grinding Ice_

I could not keep track of time during the flight from Aman, for the land was still held under the silken sway of night. Perhaps we traveled for days, but without the Treelight we knew neither when to camp or to halt, and so we blindly pressed ever onward without cease, driven by the fire I had lit in the Noldor's hearts. So time was a blur on that great journey. But what I do know is this--it was all too soon that we reached the beginnings of the Helcaraxë.

Even before we saw the Grinding Ice itself, we could sense our nearness to the uttermost point of Aman. Chill winds knifed through even the thickest of our cloaks and tunics, and we found ourselves soon trudging through thick drifts of snow that had not melted since the beginning of time. The nearby Sea was soon covered in a splintered, paper-thin rime of ice that only became thicker as we proceeded northward. The waves themselves grew sluggish with the cold, lashing out half-heartedly upon the near-frozen shore.

Our pace slowed as we struggled toward the strait of Araman, and soon I began ordering the men to surrender their cloaks to their wives and children, for it was the women and children who suffered from the wind and cold most. They had no armor or padding, and those elaborate and lavish clothes that they had dressed themselves in for the long-past festival upon Taniquetil did nothing to protect them from the wintry chill.

I lost count of how many men and women alike begged me to halt for a brief respite from the march. I also lost count of how many times I had to say no to such an entreaty, and explain how if we halted, we would perish in this land of eternal winter. Despite my attempts to lift the spirits of the Noldor once more, I knew that their loyalty and resolve was slowly failing.

As we strove and strained through the bleak wilderness, a thick, icy mist settled about us, snuffing our torches and the starlight with its wet coldness. It felt like a suffocating cloak of dampness and cold, and soaked us to the bone. A few of our number produced and lit delicate lanterns then, hoping to shed some light on this forsaken land. Indeed, the glass casings of the lamps sheltered their flames from the stifling wet fog, but their light was so few and far between that they did little besides dampen our hopes even more.

At last, after we reached the peak of a snow-blanketed hillock, the chilling clouds cleared ever so slightly, thinning so that we could see the perilous trail of ice laid before us in all its fearsome splendor.

I had heard cautionary tales of the Helcaraxë in my youth, of the treacherous, ever-moving ice that only a Vala could cross in perfect safety, of the unimaginably deafening thunder of the bergs as they collided with each other; but no tale could have readied me for this awesome sight.

The precarious path of frost wound for what seemed like forever across the bitter, roiling Sea, to a shore far to the East that was shrouded in a veil of mist that the feeble starlight could not even begin to pierce. Sharp peaks of ice stabbed into the dark skies, some of the cold pikes reaching to dizzying, impossibly lofty heights that disappeared into the fog. Even as we watched, the jagged floes stirred and groaned, grating and rasping along the other slabs of ice with a tremendous sound like the violent, earsplitting crack of thunder, sending dagger-sharp needles of frost high into the air with bubbling foam.

Fickle, listless clouds fled from each other across the expanses of the blue-black heavens, always shifting and stirring in the constant cold winds that whipped across the shivering, icy water, piercing the warmth of flesh like needles of broken glass. All in all, the lifeless, threatening Helcaraxë was a sight that was both coldly beautiful and devastatingly horrifying all at once, a nightmarish situation that thrilled and frightened the heart at the same time.

Behind me, the hosts had stopped dead as well, too stunned and startled to even move. For a moment, all that moved was the faint vapor of our labored breathing, appearing and fading swiftly in the cold air.

"We cannot cross this field of treacherous ice and water. We are lost," someone moaned at last, and all the Noldor began emulating the speaker's outlook, collapsing in the snow and burying their heads in their hands.

"Stop it!" I shouted futilely, wheeling about and fixing them all with a baleful glare, "We will not be remembered in the annals of Arda as meek cowards who failed in their one chance at freedom! Are we not the Noldor? Are we not as powerful as the Valar?"

No cheers of admiration followed my questions--only a sullen, hesitant silence that split the cold air of the Helcaraxë in a way that no crowd's praise could. A fear colder than the icy water clenched my heart in its bitter grasp. What had happened to my ardent followers?

"What then should we do, _King_?" Artaresto shouted irreverently. He had clearly been bouncing on his heels for an opportunity to leap at my throat since the skirmish at Alqualondë, and had finally found his chance. I turned my sharp gaze to him, trying and failing to keep my hand from gripping the hilt of my sword threateningly.

"That is for my sons and me to decide, son of Arafinwë," I replied, voice low and dangerous. Artaresto fell silent and lowered his gaze irresolutely, but glowered still in sulky resentment. I looked about at the other Noldor, huddled together in the cold, returning my gaze with brooding eyes that mistrusted and scorned my judgment.

"Make camp," I ordered, then looked about for the members of my house, who suddenly seemed few and insignificant in this coldly distant world.

The Noldor slowly set to work building temporary shelters from the cold, made of thick-woven tapestries and tattered cloaks. When this was done, they built meager fires on what dry wood they had thought to bring, clustering about the feeble flames for the little warmth they could find in this bleak night. They passed scanty portions of bread and cold wine among them, swallowing the food down in hasty, tasteless mouthfuls, for they had not eaten for a long while and were starved for the mere feel of sustenance in their bellies.

Then they wrapped the frailest and youngest among them in all the blankets they could spare, hoping that the bitter cold would not make this night their last. As the feeding and warming subsided, they looked out on the snowbound land, and the devious, ever-changing path of ice leading across to the dim, wraithlike Eastern shore, and wondered what ghastly fate lay before them.

My sons and I also made a hasty camp and fire, then gathered about the halfhearted warmth, muttering our plans to each other through chattering teeth and frost-rimed lips.

"We should get the women and children onto the boats," Tyelkormo suggested after a particularly long bout of silence, "And the men should brave the Ice."

"What do women know of maneuvering or commanding vessels, especially if those ships must be navigated across treacherous waters?" Carnistir snapped at his brother from across the fire, then nestled himself contentedly further in his fur-lined cloak and murmured something to Curufinwë, who laughed quietly in response. Tyelkormo knew, in intuitive older-brother fashion, that he was the brunt of Carnistir's jest and glared sourly at his two younger siblings.

"In any case," Curufinwë commented after recovering from his amusement, "The ships are too few to hold all the wives and children of the Noldor, let alone all of the Noldor. When we first took the ships, we had a fleet of about twenty. Now, after Uinen's intervention, we only have ten or so--enough maybe to bear most of our share of the hosts comfortably."

"Can we not wait until morning?" Tyelpinquar asked his father groggily. Makalaurë snorted scathingly at his nephew's mistake, and everyone looked at my second son oddly--that was the first sound he had made since he had seen me slay Olwë.

"No, Tyelpo," Curufinwë replied in a gentle, protective voice as he put a caring arm about his half-asleep son, then looked up at the starry black sky with an uneasy gaze. "No, my son. There will be no morning."

There was another troubled stillness as we all mulled bitterly over the portent of Curufinwë's disquieting words. Then Ambarto shifted his cloak to make himself more comfortable and asked, "What do you think, Father? You have not spoken for a while."

I met his questioning, eager gaze with worn, exhausted eyes. The fire that had lit me in Tirion was slowly dimming; even I realized it now. All I wanted now was a good long rest, far away from the world, far from the burdensome troubles of an entire people resting upon my shoulders, until my strength was replenished. Even this temporary halt in the march brought me no ease, for even resting was a constant battle for survival in this barren, snowbound land. Hearts could be stopped from the cold of one gust of wind here.

"I do not know," I confessed, hanging my head again, not wanting to meet their earnest eyes. "I do not know."

"We only have two choices, Father, if it is our wish to cross the Sea. We can either traverse the Helcaraxë and brave its dangers--or take what Noldor we can across the water in what few Telerin vessels we have left," Curufinwë reiterated patiently for me. His gaze grew pleading, desperate. "Please choose for us, Father. You are our King."

"We will follow you," Ambarussa agreed eagerly, his still-young face earnest in the flickering golden glow. Involuntarily, his hand strayed to the embossed shield and sheathed sword lying on the snow beside him, as if in remembrance of what he and his brothers owed me as my sons. "We swore the oath."

I set my hands before me to gather some of the faint warmth of the fire, watching yellow firelight play where blood had stained only a short while ago.

Lazily, I closed my eyes and thought of home. The hearth in our house in Tirion had always been warmer than a summer's day, even in the depths of winter. In happier days, I had often read to my sons or daydreamed of new creations while sitting by that warm stone fireplace, letting the day's cares slowly drain away as warmth loosened my aching muscles and eased my mind toward sleep. Lost in remembrance, I basked in memories and imagined heat until duty relentlessly turned my idle mind to my constant internal weavings of plans and designs. No time was left for me to be wistful. Duty came first.

"Of course," I whispered to myself as my sons leaned in expectantly, awaiting my response. "Why risk the lives of those who remain faithful to me upon the ices of the Helcaraxë, when I can ensure and protect their fates by letting them sail to Middle-earth?"

"But, Father," Maitimo protested, forcing a weak grin as he attempted to disperse his fears, "We just explained that if we were to make use of the ships, we would have to pick and choose whom we left behind!"

My cool silence in reply hushed all possibility of further protest. They stared at me in numb shock, each taking his own amount of time to accept my decision--unhesitatingly stalwart Curufinwë first, and reluctant, unwarlike Maitimo last.

"Let word go to the men from Formenos and their families of our plan," I ordered in a soft but compelling voice, "Tell them to bring the command in turn to a small number of those whom they deem unfalteringly loyal to me. But tell them also to _not_ let a single whisper of this go to any member of the host of Nolofinwë, or they will face my wrath when we are discovered."

Meekly, they all stood their feet and set off. I watched them go, then followed the gaze of my people to the pitiless skies above.


	41. Chapter FortyOne: The Dream

_Chapter Forty-one: The Dream_

When all the people of Nolofinwë were asleep or lost in wistful dreams of the home they had left behind, the people of my host stole down to the cold beaches where the swan-ships were harbored, moving on silent feet that stirred neither snow nor ice. Without a word, they noiselessly boarded the eleven vessels anchored there, and we set sail from the shores of Aman, the ships cutting like pale, silent ghosts across the black waters.

It was only when we were farther out to see that we spared glances back toward the land that had been, for most of us, the only home we had ever known. The coasts of the Undying Realm were swathed in impenetrable mist, and lonesome clouds scudded restlessly across the sky, finding no slumber or rest in this endless night.

I did not spare myself a moment's respite until the shores faded from sight, and even then did not consider my people or myself wholly free of the Valar's fetters. When the silhouette of Aman was gone from the horizon, I wandered belowdecks. With a sigh, I sat at an empty table, wanting to find a brief moment to savor my newfound freedom. Even as I did so, my wakeful mind submitted to my weary body's entreaties for sleep, and I found myself nearly at once in a dream.

_I wandered as a houseless spirit over the Sea, until I drifted at last to the Northern realm of Middle-earth, where dark mountains lay in wait for me. But through the encroaching night, I could see three distant, but nonetheless enduring, lights in the distant, darkening both star and shadow in their endeavor for illumination. Such beauty I had not hoped to see again for a long while. _

_The Silmarils. _

_Hastening, I followed their undimmed light across the bleak plains and ghostly mountains, until they lay before me at last. I had found them, I realized with a sudden surge of hope. But when I looked upon them longer, I saw that prongs of black iron, held securely to the barren earth, clasped each Silmaril in an inescapable grasp. Desperate, I reached out for one of them, and pulled at its adamant iron fetters, but my effort was fruitless. _

They are mine now,_ whispered Moringotto's voice in my head, and I wailed aloud in despair and loss and voiceless rage. . ._

_. . .even as the world changed about me. I found myself back in Tirion, and I knew instinctively that I had returned to that faraway-seeming night when I had first addressed the Noldor as their King, and rallied them to my cause. Even as I realized that, I turned and saw the great assemblage of Noldor and their torches upon the Mindon, and saw my corporeal self speaking to them. _

_I knew then why my new subjects had regarded me with such awe that night. I could see the fire I kindled in my own eyes, and heard the impassioned, prayerful tones of my voice that commanded beneath the pretense of requesting. My face had been set in grim lines of steel, and my gaze had swept over the Noldor like a ruthless wind that stripped them of all lies and disguises, seeing into their naked souls. For a moment I hesitated, awed by my own power. Had I known what a gift of speech I had possessed before this moment?_

_But then I saw that, with every word the bodily Fëanáro spoke, droplets of black poison and jagged steel blades flew from his mouth. The poison and blades fell upon the Noldor, and they collapsed to the earth with eyes dimmed in death. The ones who still lived did not see their companions' fates, but kept their rapturous gaze fixed upon me, until my weapons of words fell upon them and took their spirits as well. What was I doing? Why had I not realized what folly I had sown in that moment? I thought of how appalled my father would have been if he had lived to see this, and recoiled in dread at the imagined reaction._

_Horrified, I fled the sight, running heedlessly from the city and into the engulfing darkness once more and. . . _

_. . .as I slowed to a stop in the overwhelming night, I heard the ringing of steel striking steel, and reeled about, heart pounding. _

_It was Nolofinwë, girt in mail and bearing shield and longsword, resolutely fighting back the darkness. He struck out at seemingly nothingness, but with each blow there was a clangor as if he were truly in combat with a living being. With every blow he struck, a brilliant white spark rose from his blade and ascended into the heavens as a star, where it glowed among the untold others. He seemed unknowing of the beauty he created, for all his strength and heart seemed given to his fight against the dark. I watched him in surprise for a moment, stunned by his prowess with a blade and the grim determination in his face. I even let myself relax my dislike of him enough to feel a stirring of admiration for his bravery, the beginnings of an elder brother's pride in the younger._

_When he sensed my ethereal presence, Nolofinwë halted his battle, and turned to face me. For a moment, the light of his spirit, so unlike mine, yet blinding in its own fashion, dazzled me as it shone up through his eyes and face. Then he raised his sword and leveled it at me. I could not read in his expression whether he saluted or condemned me with the gesture. After a time, though, my half-brother smiled soberly, and bowed his head in reverence. _

For you, Fëanáro,_ he told me, in the silent language of dreams, _For you.

_Then he went back to his battle, fighting with more tenacity than ever, leaving me confused and suddenly uncertain of myself. Suddenly, a grief-stricken cry split the air from behind me. . ._

_. . .and I turned about to find its source, but could find none. The keening, desolate sound echoed in the dark air and in the deeps of my mind. It was the cry of one who no longer wished to live, and had nothing left to live or hope for. The sorrow in its wild, animal-like grief struck me to the bone._

What is it?_ I asked the empty blackness, _Who mourns?

I do_, the voice replied. It was strangely familiar, but I could not place the speaker, frustrated though I grew. _I mourn, for I am the last. There are no more now. All dead. Their bodies sleep in the earth now; their spirits wait for judgment; their faces haunt me in sleep; their voices rise from the ground on dark nights. . . Woe! Woe upon us all! Our sins damned us from the first, and now there is no coming back. The dead will not wake; broken promises will not mend; grieving hearts shall not heal; defeated lands shall not rise from ruin. . .

_The voice's repetitive, lyrical litanies of despair tugged at my heart and memory, for I remembered one who spoke with such emotion, such poetry, in his sweet, golden voice. One who was dear to me._

Who has died? _I asked, dismayed._

_Only silence answered. _

What happened? _I demanded to know, _Tell me!

_Another eerie wail split the sleeping air. _I am the last. I am the last of my house. What dark deeds brought me here! What bloodstained histories have I wrought in my blindness! Better death than this half-life of weeping and nightmares!

_The familiar voice's tone grew insistent, furious with blind anguish._ Turn around and see me! See what low place I have fallen to! I am the last, a cruel paradigm of this cruel epoch! Turn around and see the last of the House of Fëanáro!

_Mouth falling open, I wheeled about to see. Was Nerdanel right? Had all my sons perished but one? Who was it that lived yet? Who would be the last of my children to walk the earth? Who spoke with such maddened grief? I wanted to console him, to tell him all was well, that he should not lose hope. . ._

_But even as I turned, in hope and dread and mind-numbing agony, my sleeping body stirred, and I awoke before I could see my son's face. All I caught was the fleeting impression of eyes, dark, weary eyes grieved with all the sorrow in the world. _

My eyes flew open, and I found myself breathing hard, feeling as if I had been running in the cold, not sleeping, during the past hour. Standing unsteadily, I went to where my few belongings were shelved in a corner, and took out my Palantír. I had to speak to my sons. I had to know they were alive.

The heavy marble orb was quiet and black, waiting for my touch. I cupped it in my hands, gazing into its lightless depths and bending the vast power of the seeing stone to my will, channeling my thoughts across the wide expanse of Sea sundering me from the other Palantíri. I sent shafts of my thought like arrows through the night.

_Maitimo. Nelya. Eldest._

At first, my only response was the profound, empty void of the stone's quiescent, untapped power. But suddenly, a flare of steely gray bloomed in the darkness, its spiraling, dancing hues the exact shade of my firstborn's eyes.

_Father? What is it?_

_I just wanted to see how you were, Russandol._

The swirling patterns of silver did not cease, but Maitimo paused before responding.

_I am well, Father._

_And the twins?_

A whorl of vigorous copper joined the gray.

_We are fine, Father. _Not_ true! Ambarto was sick! Was not! I was just--I do not like the Sea, that is all! Was too, Ambarto, you liar!_

I smiled at the intertwined onslaught of my two youngest sons' voices as they argued through their shared Palantír.

They were still so young, so frail. The twins' premature birth had left them slow to mature in both body and mind, and I knew my temper and I were directly to blame for their slow growth. Back in Aman, many of the dwellers in Tirion who knew the twins wondered ignorantly at how youthful they acted for Eldar who had long since reached their majority, at how slight and weak they were in compare to the other sons of the city.

I had always been sure to suppress the merciless gossip, or encourage my other sons to do so, for my natural instinct to protect our kin became doubled by remorse when it came to the twins. But now that we were advancing upon an alien, unknown land, I felt even more protective of Ambarto and Ambarussa than ever before.

_You two_, I chastised gently, _Find peace._

_Yes, Father_, came the meek, unanimous reply. The streaks of fiery copper faded slightly in embarrassment.

I returned to addressing them all. _Keep order on your ship, all of you. Tell the Noldor that it will not be long before we see Middle-earth. And Maitimo?_

The twins' rust-colored light waned and disappeared entirely, leaving only a lingering sense of delighted anticipation, but Maitimo's sober light remained.

_Yes?_

_Maitimo, I am counting on you to keep an eye out for your brothers_, I ordered,_ They are eager and overwhelmed by this quest. See they do not get hurt. For me._

_I will._

The gray light vanished as well, leaving me with an empty seeing-stone once more. Instead of releasing my mind's grip on the Palantír, however, I lingered, reaching out yet again.

_Tyelkormo. _

_Father?_ A verdant green bloomed in the darkness.

_Are you watching over Rokkolaurë?_

_With all the attention I can spare, Father. Actually, he is bothered by neither the Sea nor the ship's movements. _A small flicker of pride flushed the stone, the color of light shining through lush green leaves.

_Good. I trust you, my son. Tell your ship's passengers to prepare to land in Middle-earth._

After completing that conversation, I contacted Carnistir and Curufinwë, and issued similar commands. When I finished, I extended my thoughts to my last son, the one whom I dreaded speaking to most--Makalaurë, who had still not spoken since the Noldor's slaughter at Alqualondë.

_Kana. Makalaurë?_

No answering pattern of dancing gold answered.

I sighed, worried for my secondborn. He had never loved the hunt or chase as much as some of my other sons, and would not even eat the flesh of beasts his brothers killed for dinner. The slaying of his own people had clearly horrified him to grieved silence.

"My King?"

Jarred out of my worries, I released the Palantír and looked up at a Noldo from Formenos. I remembered him as staunchly loyal to me, but only smiled wanly in acknowledgement.

"Yes?" I queried at last.

"We have sighted land," he informed me, with a pleased smile in return that made mine seem a frown in compare.

"Very good," I approved, though my voice was quiet, "Tell the others to make ready."

When he left, I turned back to the Palantír.

_Kana_, I urged, _We have come to the Eastern shore at last. Are you ready? _

Silence.

_Kana, speak to me._

A single filament of dull gold wound its way through the black night that was the heart of the seeing-stone. Slowly, it brightened, but remained faint and faltering.

_I am ready, Father._

Author's Note:

As I've mentioned to you before, I first started writing this story nearly three years ago. I only got as far as this chapter, and this has been the point at which I've been hanging ever since. I never expected to get to this part of the story so quickly; but then again, I never expected _Fire_ to be met with so much appreciation and support. That is why I'm very sorry to admit I really have no idea where to go from here. It's by sheer luck and irony alone that I end in this place, trapped between worlds like my fiery protagonist.

If you feel like you can't live without this story (doubtful), you could check back every once in a while, but I really doubt the chances of me coming up with a new chapter any time soon.

So if this is goodbye, I would like to thank those faithful readers who have supported this story from its start. You know who you are, and I will never forget your constant (albeit very unexpected!) encouragement and advice. You have been what I have loved most about writing and posting this story. Please keep me informed about your new stories and updates, and I will read and review them as loyally as you have read and reviewed mine.

Thank you all so much.

Blodeuedd


	42. Chapter FortyTwo: The Lake of Stars

Author's Note:

It's been a long time, but I've finally, literally found the last chapter of _Fire_. When I began writing this story over three years ago, I decided to draft an ending as an incentive, something to work towards—because, if anything, I'm a fiend for closure. Years and months went by, but I forgot all about this drafted finale until it slipped out of my battered edition of _Morgoth's Ring_ during my most recent bookshelf rearrangement. I read it and immediately realized that there, on that much-folded piece of three-year-old lined paper, was my ending, as I had originally intended it to be.

And here it is, in its full, unadulterated melodrama. I'm embarrassed now to read through its hyperbolic style and limited vision, but this was how my younger self wanted it to appear. Unedited, childish, visceral? Yes, it's all of those. But it's also a testament to my perpetual love for the magical writer who taught me and so many others how to write. This certainly won't be my last piece on this site (not if my fickle Muse has anything to say about it), but I feel a great sense of completion finally putting this up.

So, without further ado—the final act.

Love,

Bloedeuedd

* * *

_Chapter Forty-two: The Lake of Stars_

The fires that Moringotto's demons had set upon my body were no longer outside me, but within me. The flames were beneath my flesh, eating at my heart.

But I did not crumble or warp, like wood or steel. I withstood the agony, even as I knew the two flames—the one that was my spirit and that foreign one that gnawed inside my veins like an animal—would destroy each other in the end. I was doomed. Like my mother. Like my father. Dying.

I could only just feel Maitimo's arms carrying me as he ran, as if I were a child again, slumped in his arms.

Parent carried by child… I wanted to laugh, if it would not have hurt me so. I wondered why the fire had not taken him. His spirit had always been less than mine. Just like everyone's.

It hurt even to twitch my eyelids, so I stared unblinking up at the sky sweeping past, my eyes burning in their sockets. The stars were so cold. If only I could hold one, my fire would be quenched. I had held stars once, I realized. Three of them. But now they were gone, and I was dying in a strange land.

Maitimo was trying to speak to me, I realized. His face and the faces of his brothers hovered mistily in my vision.

"Father."

He looked so much like his mother. Though it sent rivulets of heat shooting through my shaking arm, I lifted a hand to his face—so cold, in compare—and said, "Remember your oath, Nelyafinwë. Look after your brothers."

Maitimo nodded. Why was there fear in his eyes? I grew impatient; this body, this weakness, was trapping me. I was a prisoner inside my own form.

"Where are the rest of you?" I demanded, "Give me your hands…"

I felt several hands clasp mine, some firm, some soft. I looked up at their foggy faces as I brought their fingers to my parched lips and kissed each, though the fires within flared painfully with each gesture I made.

"Mind your oath," I repeated, "I love all of you so much."

I heard them murmur shaking replies, but even the simple words grew dim and alien. I turned my head to look out upon the still, blue-black lake. It mirrored the night sky above perfectly, so that faraway lights seemed to shine from the dark depths.

The fire grew hotter—the last flare of a dying ember.

_I step away from the forge, my work complete, as the fires dwindle. My time is done. _

_Now I go home._

It is the star-filled lake that I looked upon last with corporeal sight, until I closed my tired, weeping eyes and saw my mother's face for the first time.


End file.
